


Groupthink

by awkwardeye



Series: Second POV [8]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Discussion of Abortion, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied pedophilia, Murder, POV Second Person, Self-Mutilation, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8482141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardeye/pseuds/awkwardeye
Summary: You're the young Hux's new victim, desperate to survive the Academy and its students.





	1. Prologue

The silence fills you with dread. You lay awake, yearning for the familiar drum of rain, but hear only the familiar noise of rainless nights: doors slamming open down the corridor, feet trampling, the muffled grunts and moans and pleas of comrades jolted awake by their peers. And you can still smell the urine soaked sheets of your bunkmate from when he was dragged from bed, kicking and screaming. As you follow the crowd, you’re filled with a dread that turns your stomach, but you keep yourself as blank as possible for fear of being one of the next ones.

It’s a tradition, though you’re only the second class of cadets to pass through the Academy. A mockery of the games played by true soldiers, it’s cruel and twisted and the exact sort of game one would expect from a group of rich teenagers who are all repressing unspoken desires and constantly facing verbal and physical abuse when they’re accustomed to people begging to lick their boots. When the rain stops, there’s always a new victim. You hadn’t understood the growing sense of unease that came with the lighter rain until you’d been pulled from bed by your bunkmate (the new victim) before your ignorance could be noted. The first time was set up by the pupils who already knew each other, trying to weed out those of undesirable backgrounds.

Mud cakes your boots. Luckily, this time you’re prepared, unlike a number of your comrades whose feet sink into the sodden soil with loud squelches and wet slaps as they sprint with the group, chanting into the still night air. The words at first blend together and slur, but when they’re clear, a thrill consumes you: that flame ignited by the fact that you’re not the victim tonight and how much you hate the victims.

_ THE BURNING! THE BURNING! THE BURNING! _

You know the instructors hear it all because it’s impossible to miss the shouting and screaming if the slamming of doors and pounding of feet running through the corridors hadn’t been enough. In the beginning, you’d wondered why they never tried to stop the Burning, but you’ve come to know now exactly how an academy in existence for only two years knows tradition.

The head prefect is Armitage Hux and he leads the crowd, yelling the loudest with his torch waving and burning as brightly as his hair that reminds you of the blood pouring from his broken nose, irritated probably by the rush of excitement. No one, but his father, would dare touch Hux and make him bleed. He’s tall and thin and he’s in his uniform with wild hair for once. His eyes are crazed and lit by the light of his torch that casts shadows across his features so that he resembles his father to the point of unnerving you. Though he’s more of an instructor than he is a student, he’s caught at the age where he’s not old enough to be taken too seriously, but not young enough to be dismissed entirely and everything he does, you think, is a challenge. He’s constantly proving himself.

You’re nearly at the face of the crowd when you all reach the shore. An endless sea of strangely still water watches row upon row of youthful faces. It’s cold and you’re shivering, but adrenaline is quickly flooding your senses like the rest of your comrades. The chanting is louder now. The leaves of the trees shake in the wind that whips your clothing and hair in every direction. Hux’s voice carries and he speaks each word with precision though he speaks too quickly to keep up with him.

The group who grabbed your bunkmate dump him unceremoniously on the ground and he writhes pathetically there until his clothing is dirty. Tears stream down his face and he chokes out useless pleas that hang stupidly on his lips. The stench of urine fills your nostrils. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t already so terrified.

You’re shoved to the front of the crowd with the others who sleep in your room and, as you look around at their faces, you see their excitement written across their features as if the activity fills them with a childish glee. You feel their expressions mirrored on your own features though the joy is only outward.

“You,” Hux says, pointing at three of your roommates: a girl and two boys all with exemplary marks. “You’ll be the Catalysts.” He points to the girl beside you, “You’re the Retriever.” He’s silent for a moment, adding to the tension. “And I’m the Burner,” he says without looking at you.

The Burning is a sick form of entertainment. When the rain stops, the weakest of the group becomes the victim. The night begins with the gathering of students by the sea and the chanting and then Hux gives his speech. The roommates of the victim become its predators because the victim is their burden to be done away with. Some people wait excitedly for the chance while others, yourself included, hope ceaselessly to escape being a predator when the victim is tossed into the murky, black depths and told to swim to the point of no return or be caught, to swim until there’s no choice but to swim forward. 

The Catalysts chase the victim in the water in the hopes of dragging it back to shore where it’s delivered to the Burner. However, everyone hopes secretly for the Retriever to be needed should the victim be rendered unconscious or dead in the waters and its body must be retrieved and given to the Burner. And when it all comes to the final stage with the Burner, the crowd is usually too excited to be quiet. The Retriever strips the victim, throws it into the crowd, and allows the previously chosen student to douse it in gasoline. And then all the Burner has to do is light a match and toss it and the Burning has truly commenced. It’s the role that is least desired: the murderer. Because up until then there was a chance of returning to a state previously reached, but once the match is lit and tossed, no apology or sudden outburst can save the victim.  _ That _ is the true point of no return.

Tonight, you’re expected to witness the murder of a boy you’ve slept an arm’s length from every night since your arrival. When the time comes and you look away, Hux is watching you.


	2. Verbal Irony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux makes an offer you can't turn down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel horrible after writing this, which is exactly why i'm posting it quickly before i change my mind

Armitage is on edge today. Something to do with his stepmother, something to do with a gift or something frivolous. It’s not that he cares –he doesn’t– but that his father cares and, if his father cares about something (something that he’s apparently done wrong, at that), then he has to find something else to do to garner the right kind of attention. It’s obvious that he hasn’t.

The commandant holds his son’s head, gripping the carefully combed fiery strands so that they come loose from their style, as he forces the lanky boy’s gaze to land on him. Armitage clenches his jaw, but is silent. The kind of silent one might mistake as his being timid. With their foreheads pressed together, Brendol speaks quietly and lowly, but not so discreetly that you can’t tell what he’s saying.

No, you’re putting an extra amount of effort into scrubbing the floors to both focus on something else and move away from them. Your peer is doing the same, scrubbing the tile so furiously that the skin on his knuckles has broken and is bleeding from scraping so often. And your breath falls heavily from your lips as you inch slowly away from the duo.

“What will we not have?” The older Hux is asking, so upset that spit gathers at the corners of his mouth.

“We’ll not have any disrespect toward _Mother_ ,” Armitage says, somberly. The tension rises as his father’s hand slips down to the nape of his neck, gripping the pale skin there harshly.

“And what will you do?”

“I’ll make sure to visit her grave while you prance around with your bitter, old whore,” Armitage says, and his delivery is so calm that for a moment you don’t catch what he says. But once you do, you look away.

The noise of skin against skin fills the corridor with a resounding clap. You hear him stumble, lean against the wall to support himself. And then he spits onto the floor. There’s silence for a long moment and then suddenly you’re all breathing loudly together as the father and son stare at each other. You glance at your comrade who’s got that panicked look in his wide eyes that prey get when they hear a predator approach.

“You ought to learn when to keep your mouth shut, boy,” Brendol says. He pauses behind you, but you don’t turn to look at him. “Or being my bastard simply won’t be enough.”

You keep your head bowed as the older man passes you because you don’t want to be his next victim and you’ve heard the rumors about him and the first year girls. The younger they are, the better. He likes girls like you whose eyes still shine with the innocence they were told would catch a husband at their debutante balls.

Armitage pulls you up by your arm as he walks, forcing you to abandon your post without a word as he leads you down the corridor. And you’re too stunned to speak. He doesn’t even look at you and you’re convincing yourself that he just picked up the first person he saw when he says your name.

“Your parents are wasting their money on a corpse,” he says, slamming you against a wall.

You press your lips together and drop your gaze to his polished leather boots, knowing you’ll get worse if you respond in any way. Oh, you’ve seen it happen a million times. Armitage gets hurt and heals his ego by abusing his comrades of lower rank. You’ve seen him yell at a boy who asked to be excused as he watched the boy soil himself before him, overcome by the anxiety Armitage induces.

His father does it, too. Brendol terrifies every single pupil. But it’s different. There’s an authority to him, a genuine poise and position, but with Armitage, there’s only a savage beast trying to reach for its prey hidden beneath the prim prefect. And there’s nothing keeping him from humiliating anyone. He fears his father, but obviously not enough.

“Look at me,” Hux says, calmly. He doesn’t repeat himself when you don’t immediately obey, but instead he grabs your face and tilts it upward toward his. “See, that’s the problem with you. You’re incapable of focusing on what you need to.”

You press your lips together and try not to think of how his eyes shine with a peculiar glee.

“And I bet you thought no one had seen you look away…” His voice is barely a whisper.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, you lie.

“Oh? Well, I’m referring to the last Burning.” He sneers and steps away from you. “How you looked away…”

You press your lips together as your mind is overcome by the sort of numbness that takes over the brain when fear grows to be too much and your emotions all jumble together like the waves of visible light and come through as nothing: whiteness.

“You’ve got that look in your eyes like you expect me to hurt you. Tell me, what would you do to avoid being the one burned?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, your vision blurring. “If I’m weak, I’ll burn. If I’m strong, it only takes a single mistake and there it is. A glance.”

“Are you going to cry?” Hux asks, his voice strained.

“I’m already weak,” you say, as the first tears fall, and his eyes are on your own filled with something very near awe.

Hux touches just below your lower eyelid, tracing lightly the bulge of your eye where your socket sinks in. His lips part as though he’s become too preoccupied to keep them pressed together. There’s wonder in his eyes. A tear wets his thumb and he drags the wetness down the curve of your cheek to the corner of your mouth. The digit pauses there for a moment before swiping leisurely across your lips. And then he presses that thumb down at the very center of your lips so that your lips part and his thumb hits your teeth.

“Open your mouth,” he says, and his voice is barely more than a breath as though he’s become too excited to speak normally.

You let your jaw hang slack, too stunned to cry any longer by the fact that Armitage Hux is touching you without hitting you. His thumb tastes faintly of soap and your tears. His skin is soft and smooth as though he’s never worked hard. You feel him press his thumb down on your tongue lightly before retracting it as quickly as he’d placed it there.

Hux withdraws from you, staring at his hand for a long moment. He glances at your face and his hand lifts to touch you again, but he freezes with the sound of approaching footsteps. His hand drops back down to his side, his thumb glistening with your saliva. Quickly, he wipes his face of all emotion save for his usual disdain and assesses you.

“Report to my quarters after curfew if you value your life.”

* * *

 

The corridors are deathly quiet and still. There’s not a prefect in sight, nor an instructor to be seen. It’s so dark you have to stumble blindly, clutching the wall to gain your senses, while your eyes adjust to the blackness. Shuffling forward, the noise of your breaths and the swish of your nightgown against the cool walls seems to echo loudly.

Hux’s door has been left ajar when you reach it. For a moment, you stand hesitantly before it just outside of the strip of warm light that flows out. There’s music playing from within, soft, melodic music that is reminiscent of the kind played at debutante balls. The hallway smells faintly of cigarettes and heavy cleaning products. You knock on the door, shifting nervously.

He appears suddenly with only his eye visible through the crack. That single eye stares down at you blankly for a breath, and then he speaks very quickly and quietly. He speaks as though he’s discussing something urgent and of the utmost importance. It’s a wonder his words don’t blend together into meaningless noise, but even talking at such a fast pace has no effect on his enunciation.

“If you enter this room, you agree to do anything I tell you to do in exchange for your protection. In this room, your morals mean nothing to me, your desires less, and you are not your own autonomous being, but a vessel for me to enjoy. If I degrade you, you will thank me for my mercy. If I beat you, you will thank me for my protection. If I kill you, you’ll die thanking me for being the one to do it. You mean absolutely nothing to me and you are disposable, so don’t fill your little head with fantasies no matter what I do to you and how it feels.” He pauses, blinking once.

“If you enter this room and do anything I deem undesirable, I’ll make sure you’re the next victim. If you don’t enter this room, you’ll be the next victim.” Hux’s eye is a single abyss staring into you without any regret. That blank orb makes his words feel heavier and heavier with each passing moment. “It’s your choice.”

You don’t have to think about it because the only option seems painfully clear. It’s either live or be murdered. Nodding, you stare into his single eye and hear the words on your lips before you’re aware that you’re saying them. And your blood runs cold as they are on your tongue, but you don’t try to deny them.

“I’ll come in,” you say, and your voice shakes slightly.

The door swings inward on creaking hinges as Hux steps aside to let you enter his quarters. The only light comes from a lamp on his desk, but it’s enough to illuminate the photographs that cover a single wall. They’re all black and white, some faded and worn around the edges, but not a single one is marred by color. Faces upon faces in various stages of distress or, perhaps, pleasure. The ones fully illuminated seem to hint at ecstacy, while the ones cast in shadow hint at agony.

“Stand in the middle of the room and look only at me,” Hux says.

You walk quickly, turning your head to keep the young man in your vision. As he comes to stand before you, he holds your gaze and there’s something like glee in his eyes. It reminds you of the way he looks when he berates your comrades and you swallow thickly as your mouth grows dry. Still, you hold his gaze.

“When you cried earlier, I knew I wanted you,” Hux murmurs, stopping before you. “So easily moved to tears, looking at me with those distraught eyes like you’d been put through an eternal bout of suffering…” He tilts his head and gestures at you. “Undress. And don’t say a word.” He crosses his arms over his chest and watches you carefully.

Your gown falls at your feet in a ring of white fabric. Your fingers begin to shake when you move to discard your underwear and the cloth twists on its way down your thighs. But you don’t look down, you simply bend over and roll your underwear down your legs clumsily, never looking away from Hux. He seems amused by your show, smirking when you straighten to your full height again.

“Kneel,” he whispers. You start to sink to your knees where you are only for him to pull you back up by your hair, hissing, “Closer to me.”

You stare at him as he undresses himself quickly with lithe digits. The buttons of his shirt are undone one by one so quickly that you have no time to prepare for the sight of his bare chest before there it is. There are bandages wrapped around his narrow torso and angry purple bruises spill from beneath the pristine white of the bandages.

His belt thuds loudly as it falls to the floor, tossed carelessly away from your forms. He hooks his fingers in his underwear as well as his pants and pulls them down quickly. When he stands again, he moves so that his penis brushes your cheek and he has to pause for a moment to laugh at the sight of you. The noise is foreign to your ears coming from him, and you flinch when he laughs because it makes the weight on your cheek feel all the more real. But you don’t look away.

You grow more and more humiliated as his game goes on as it is. Realizing what he’ll have you do, a sinking dread settles at the pit of your stomach like something awful meeting the floor of an abyss. And you know this is only the beginning for him, that he’ll grow sadistic soon.

He steps back, running his fingers through his hair and tilts his head back. You watch his Adam’s apple bob twice before he stalks over to his desk to rummage through the drawers. Slamming each one shut when before forcing the next open, he seems impatient and mumbles to himself incoherently. Eventually, he returns holding his datapad and wearing a sickening grin.

“What would your parents think if they found out you’re on your knees for me when you should be in bed?” He shifts, his hand falling down to caress his growing erection, and stares cruelly down at you. “What would they think of you agreeing to be my whore to avoid being burned alive? Would they rather you’d simply accepted your fate?”

You want to respond, but you don’t. Instead you bite your tongue and try not to flinch whenever he presses the very tip of his length against your lips, letting the wetness that accumulates soak into your lips. Tears of frustration burn your eyes and you’re unsure of how to react. Because he’s simultaneously saving your life while making you feel like you’re worthless, like you’ve made a mistake.

He steps back, his hand pumping furiously up and down his length while his breath grows heavy. A blush spreads across his cheeks and he glares down at you, muttering to himself about how worthless you are. The gleam in his eyes doesn’t fade, no it grows brighter. He pauses only to hold his datapad over you, saying, “Look up into the lens.”

And you do, you stare at that blank lens as though it’s a reprieve from reality. You see your face reflected, shadowed, but you. The movement of Hux’s hand assaults the corners of your vision while his tiny groans and grunts assault your hearing. You want to cover your ears and close your eyes like a child placed before the monster it fears most when sleep overcomes the senses.

“Your purpose from now on is to be my plaything. Tell me you’re grateful,” Hux growls.

Your eyes dart to meet his before slipping back to the lens. You clench your hands into fists with so much force that you feel your nails break the skin of your palms. Tears threaten, but you blink quickly, not wanting to give him exactly what he desires of you, exactly what he expects from you. Gritting your teeth, your eyebrows furrow as you nod.

“I’m grateful,” you whisper.

“Good, now open your mouth.”

His cock is on your tongue the second your lips part, sliding without a care into your mouth. When you gag and try to pull away, he grabs the back of your neck and forces you forward, chuckling to himself. The taste of him floods your mouth while your vision fills with his wiry, pale pubic hair. It tickles your nose while you inhale deeply, searching desperately for breath.

Each inhalation brings forth a wave of the scent of him, of the musk that settles between his legs that is a mixture of standard soap and his sweat. Your jaw aches and you whimper, but he’s unrelenting. He thrusts into your mouth slowly, shallowly, searching for a quick release in your mouth. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth, dribbling down your chin whenever he withdraws fully from your mouth and you gasp in breaths, remaining connected to his cock by thick strings of saliva.

Hux isn’t gentle or accommodating. You look at him now and wonder how you ever considered him to be anything near a standard to be met, how you ever saw the evidence of his father’s aggression on his body and felt bad for him now that he’s shoving his cock into your mouth like a starved deviant. He gets what he wants from you as tears spill over your face and you choke on his cock. He draws pitiful noises from you, promising to do worse the next time every few moments.

When he finally pulls away, his hand returns to his length to smear your saliva over it like some sort of makeshift lubricant. You close your mouth and give up on fighting the urge to cry. You sob openly as you watch his digits squeeze his erection, trying to pull from him an orgasm that is so obviously eminent by the twitching of his cock and the contraction of the muscles that mark his torso. He moans when he finally releases thick ropes of his cum across your face and breasts, with an air of accomplishment about him.

You know he’s recording you and your stomach twists with a mixture of disgust and relief when he steps away from you. Because it happened, because it’s over. Because the only thing you’re wearing is his semen and your tears and spit while he seems thoroughly pleased with himself, shoving his datapad in your face.

“Say you’re happy to be my slut,” Hux says, panting.

“I’m happy…” You sob and draw in a shaky breath as you’re throat constricts. “I’m happy to be your slut, Hux.” A piece of you wishes you’d chosen to die, but the desperate human instinct to live is still thankful to the man whose semen colors your features.


	3. Be Careful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You remember the night your innocence was threatened before you came to the Academy. Something strange is happening among your comrades and you're being pulled into it. Hux clarifies some of the details of your agreement in his quarters, warning you of the dangers of your new role.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Abortion is discussed toward the end of the chapter

The night of your debutante ball comes to you in clips, flashes of a memory buried within a memory, as you’re walking to the nearest cafeteria furthest from Armitage’s quarters. You find yourself returning to it often to fill your mind with the endless possibilities of the nagging question of what if. Biting your lips as you go, you remember the first time you were touched by a boy.

Your skin had burned differently with his hand on your thigh beneath the table. His skin had felt like the kindest flame as he whispered sweetly into your ear about something mundane… Was it his annual income? Or the size of his estate? Perhaps something about political propaganda. He was older and experienced. He bragged about past lovers’ praises over the rim of his glass and looked at you like you were a meal.

His hair was dark, his eyes darker, and his skin smooth and unmarked. With a gently curving jaw, like that of a woman, and eyes that turned down at the corners framed by thick eyelashes, he’d been a dream. His parents were rich, he was rich, and your parents had told you specifically to talk to him that night. The way his head tilted slightly when he looked at you, as though he was always considering your words or something about you, made you feel important.  _ Special _ , even…

You don’t think of his name, only his voice and how smooth it had been when he suggested that you accompany him in the garden long after the other guests had gone. A few of the other young men broke away with his suggestion, all put off. And, of course, your parents collected contacts, eager to marry their daughter off to avoid the alternative. When you disappeared with the dark haired man, your parents eyes shone brightly as though they’d succeeded.

Young and naive, you followed him out into the garden where the moon’s light cast pale shadows across rows of flora. Small creatures scurried across the path, away from your feet, as you both went, arm in arm, further into the maze. You remember the scene vividly. It was something that had always seemed banal turned majestic. The fountains and their carved statues were like white angels pouring forth glistening streams that whispered sweetly into the still night air. The vines that twisted around the archways seemed to lean in to listen as you passed beneath each arch one by one. There wasn’t even a wind to ruin the night.

“You’re truly a dream tonight,” he said, leading you leisurely.

Your cheeks flushed as you thanked him and you dipped your head. You felt his gaze at the nape of your neck.

“Did I mention the stream?” he asked, as you came to a bench on the path.

“I don’t believe you did.” Your voice was barely more than a whisper.

He took your hand as you sat, holding it for a moment before letting his fingers slip to your knee. There, they tangled in the fabric of your dress and your breath hitched with your hem.

“Did something happen at the stream?” you asked.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to hear?” he asked, smiling warmly at you.

“Do you absolutely promise to marry me?” you whispered, returning his smile and gaze for a short moment. It was bold, but your tongue was loose from the evening’s champagne.

“Is that your answer?”

You nodded.

“I knew a woman beside the stream.” He paused, your skirt now pushed near your knees. “Have you known anyone?”

You shook your head, looking away from him.

“Would you like to?”  He spoke softly.

You shook your head again.

“Come now, of course you do,” he said, his tone dripping with amused disbelief.

You shook your head and stood, your dress falling into place again.

“We’ll be married soon. You don’t need to be ashamed,” he said, murmuring.

“Then we’ll know each other when we’re married,” you said.

“I need to know you before then.” He stood with you. “How else will I know that I’m marrying the right person for me?”

You felt a desire to please him when his soft eyes met yours. Biting your lip, your resolve wavered. You needed to be married or, at least, engaged before the start of the semester at the Academy or your parents would send you away. All of your friends were already claimed. A part of you was desperate and afraid to be sent away.

“Let me see you this once. We don’t need to make love, but I must see you,” he whispered as he reached for your dress.

There weren’t straps to resist his tugging and soon your breasts were bare to him. He made a soft noise at the back of his throat, his mouth hanging open, and groaned at the sight before groping you with crazed eyes. It was hasty and clumsy, but he stayed that way for a moment despite your efforts to get him to stop, quieting you with sweet words.

He only relinquished to bring your hand to his crotch, forcing you to touch the stiffness. Even now, you remember the shape and feel of him with startling detail. He stepped back and made quick work of his trousers, pulling his penis free. When he returned to you, he guided your hand down the length of it. And you stood that way for a while, touching him reluctantly while bile rose in your throat and your stomach churned as he touched you. After a long while, you said it was time to go.

“Kiss me before we part,” he said, and when you moved to kiss him, he whispered, “Not my lips.”

The memory is interrupted by a body slamming into yours. You stumble and look around, bewildered, in search of the cause. An older comrade stands shakily behind you, offering his hand and you stare at it confused for a moment because you don’t need his help standing. When he takes your hand forcefully, you flinch, but accepted what he places in your palm before turning swiftly and standing at attention without explanation. There are footsteps approaching, the measured kindof the officers in charge of correction.

“Don’t look at it until you’re alone,” he hisses. “And go quickly!”

You walk quickly, but calmly away without glancing back. Your blood rushes in your ears and you’re beginning to feel faint as your sweat dampens the slip curling against your palm and the scabs from your meeting with Hux. It’s only a paper, but it feels lethal. Considering tossing it, you linger near the chutes, but pass them quickly in favor of slipping outside on the basis of a quick walk.

The wind whips your cheeks until they’re raw. Adrenaline coursing through your veins is the only thing keeping you from freezing. Blood rises to the surface of your skin, leaving your palms and fingertips flushed as though submerged in water of either side of the extreme temperature wise. You pass several of your comrades, but they’re all huddled at the entrance to smoke their cigarettes. They watch you go, uninterested as the rain pours down on you.

You didn’t stop to retrieve your outerwear and the cold prevails once your clothes have soaked. The fall of rain is less heavy once you reach the trees and when you stop to catch your breath you can count the drops that fall through the green canopy dulled by the day’s darkness. Slowly, you look around to make sure you haven’t been followed. Satisfied with the stillness surrounding you, you lean against a tree while inhaling a deep breath of air.

You turn the slip in your hand uncertainly before unfolding it hesitantly, careful not to tear the damp edges of it where your fingers couldn’t thwart the downpour. Holding your breath, you try to read the scrawled writing running across it, but it’s only a single smudged line. Beneath it is a number, 0000, and below that lies a single line of text: IS THERE AN ANSWER IN THE ASHES?

Dread fills you as you toss the paper away, kicking mud over it. It can’t simply be nonsense, otherwise the person who gave it to you wouldn’t have passed it on like contraband. And right when you thought you were safe, you’ve become a pawn in something far worse than a glance.

* * *

Hux has you wait for him while he showers. When you arrived at his room, clean and without your undergarments, the lights were on and he spoke to you from the bathroom. The water had cut on after he spoke, telling you to close and lock the door behind you. It was obvious he’d waited for you, probably eager to exercise such control.

You take the time to study the photographs on the wall behind his desk. Though at first glance they all seem to be of different people, it’s clear upon studying them further that they’re all of the same handful of people with the occasional visitor mixed in. It seems the subjects all lose something with each photograph, though they seem to be less bruised in the next picture. Their eyes grow more fearful as their faces grow clearer.

There’s a bound book on the table and you think it’s a bit ancient. But Hux seems to be fond of the ancient tools judging by the photographs and there’s a camera on the desk, film beside it. You refrain from touching anything, fearing that somehow he’ll know. Your picture has yet to be added to the collection and you’re nearly sure that it’s only a matter of time before he captures you however he will. On the desk, there’s only that book, camera, and a metal rod. Your blood runs cold at the sight of it.

“Curious?” Hux stands in the doorway fully dressed with his wet hair slicked back for the most part. A few flaming strands lick his forehead. For once, his expression is calm without the coldness and he looks nearly cherubic with flushed cheeks and glistening, pink lips.

You stare at him, unsure of how to respond. Fearful of saying the wrong thing, you lower your gaze and press your lips together. A guilt rises to the surface of you as your thoughts turn immediately to the slip and how it felt like simply holding it was a threat. The way he looks at you, like he knows...

“There’s no wrong answer to the question,” Armitage says, stepping into the room fully.

_ Is there an answer in the ashes? _ You shake the thought from your mind. No, he can’t know. No one knows save for yourself and the boy who gave you the slip.

“Are you going to beat me?” you ask.

“Not unless you disobey me,” he replies, approaching his desk. You step away, clearing his path, and still he stops too close to you.

“Then why do you have the rod?”

“Because you have to learn sooner or later.” Hux runs his fingers along the length of the rod, tilting his head. “Tonight’s session will have to be brief. I have my duties. You’ll have to listen carefully.”

You hold your breath as you watch him move to the bed. This is the calm before the storm. You can feel it in every fiber of your being for this feels like the pause that precedes the moment a predator springs.

“Our agreement is entirely confidential. I’m mentioning that though I know you won’t speak because I know there will be a point when you’ll feel forced to speak.” He pauses, gazing absently at his desk as though preoccupied with something not present. “Should that ever change, you’ll be notified.” He sounds robotic, his words rehearsed or at the very least repeated. “Questions?”

“Have you done this before?” you ask, stupidly.

“You should know; you seem fixated on that wall.” He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, standing to his full height. He towers over you.

“If I may,” you begin.

“Why preface it with that if you’ll ask anyway?” Hux mutters. It’s rhetorical.

“Why would I ever feel forced to admit to…  _ this _ ?” You spit out the last word bitterly, remembering your last visit.

“You would,” he says, dismissively. “If you could. We both know you won’t enjoy this nearly as much as I do. But I’ve your consent, be it dubious as it is.”

Your bottom lip quivers and you close your eyes, silently giving in.

“ _ Don’t look at me in public _ ,” Armitage growls, a glimpse of his usual self pushing through his facade. “Your comrades are vigilant and so much as a glance could murder you and I can’t fuck a dead thing.”

“What if you’re speaking?”

“Then you’ll do what you’ve always done.”

_ What you’ve always done _ … You can barely remember how you bathed before Hux used you. It feels as though you’re learning to walk again. Even the night of your debutante ball hadn’t left you feeling so dirty, though you couldn’t kiss your parents for weeks following. Then again, the man hadn’t defiled your face per se and he hadn’t needed to force you to press that fleeting kiss there because you’d been stupid to believe his words.

“You’ll accept me whenever I want you.”

You don’t have a response to that.

“There are other rules, but they’ll be revealed should you need them,” Hux says with an air of finality. He tilts his head, pondering something before making an irritated noise. “Ah, the rod…”

Your eyes widen and dart to his desk.

“Don’t look so fearful,” he says, sneering at you. “You’ll need to keep up with your contraceptives. Monthly injections from now on, they’re our most efficient treatment. If you ever fall pregnant…” His eyes fall upon the rod. “You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. The girls who were in your circle were busy little women, weren’t they?” There’s amusement on his tongue.

“There are willing medics to perform-,” you begin.

“And then you’ll have to admit it’s mine.”

Anyone sharing your surname would suffer if something so scandalous was revealed. Hux, his family can withstand a story, but it would ruin his military career the way it’s been progressing.

“I’ll not have any more Hux bastards becoming the source of gossip,” he says quietly, his eyes flashing.

There are ways of preventing such even after conception, the quickest being the messiest and too dangerous to try first. Suddenly the metal rod seems all the more threatening.

You had a servant, a sweet young girl with dark hair and a soft voice. With the emptiest eyes you’d ever seen. It was as though words could never fully fit into her realm of perception at quite the right rate. She was easily persuaded to do things others would turn down and you’d liked her because she was too innocent to keep her mouth shut regarding private matters. The servants were known to gossip among each other, but rarely with their masters, but she told you everything she knew as long as you made sure she got a slice of her favorite pastry when she took you to the markets on her days off. 

It was an absolute secret that never bothered to hide itself. Your parents would have skinned you if they’d known where you went on those lazy afternoons, disappearing with a servant on the pretense of a walk through the small wooded area that surrounded your home. But you were strangely attached to the dull girl and you were always around when one of your father’s comrades would approach her.

He was always very careful about it, too. He’d always pass you on the path to the market. The first time you accompanied her, a blank faced adolescent, he looked guiltily at you and asked quietly for you not to mention “whatever it was that you believe you saw” as he slipped a few coins into your hand. And after that he would pass her a note on the path and she would take you with her to see him wherever the note told her to. You were too innocent to realize why she always stiffened when she saw him or what her skewed clothing meant when she met you outside after. And you hadn’t understood the redness around her eyes for years.

She became frantic along with the rest of the servants one week. For that week, there was a hush in their quarters unlike any other and many came to visit bearing home remedies to battle her illness. You didn’t know then why so few servants ever had children, but you know now. The most effective method had also been the only one to go so terribly wrong. Even now you can recall with vivid detail the sight of pale hands covered in blood and the mess left on the tiles, the stained sheets, the crimson footprints… her feverish visage… those empty eyes filled with sorrow as though she knew… But of course she must have known.

Your parents never discussed it, but your friends were fascinated. They never went down the same route. Some caught infections, punctured things better left untouched, but their biggest pains were nothing in comparison to the servants’. You’ve heard of them burning themselves from the inside out to avoid the possibility of children. For the rich girls, several days of fever and headaches are the worst pain, the only consequence. Your mother sent you off with a powder for “headaches” before you left, warning you to be careful.

“Should you need to, I won’t assist you.” Hux says, his voice wavering as though the thought of it sickens him.

“Have you done it before?” you ask.

“No,” he replies, his eyes fading out of focus. “And you won’t change that. Anything that occurs in your body is solely your problem.”

“I…” you avert your gaze. “I’ll be careful.”

“And, one more thing, stay out of trouble. The instructors are growing suspicious. If you’re caught with the wrong crowd, I won’t save you. My protection only keeps you from burning.”


	4. Duplicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're awoken late for a reason more dangerous than the Burning that will make you question the truth as you know it. Hux does what he feels he must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically my strategy has been writing random excerpts throughout the week, plugging them into the outline, and then having a writing tempest when I get free time, which means I'm slowly getting into the rhythm of somewhat planned updates, which is nice.
> 
> Now, for warnings, we've got more rape, so skip that entire middle section if you don't want the explicit details. Otherwise, it's mentioned throughout per usual with less intensity.
> 
> Also, you're getting the eye of a scattered storm. Also, my grammar is probably horrid in this chapter. Or at least worse than normal.

You’re awake, too accustomed already to waking to leave for your meetings with Hux, too afraid to sleep for fear of meeting him your dreams. But should you meet him in sleep it would only be in a nightmare. Tonight, you toss and turn and you hear the faint whimpers of your comrades. 

They aren’t dreaming or terrified, but allowing their weakness to show under the cover of closed eyelids. Their bodies ache from hours upon hours of sparring practice and simulations of battles. Some nights, before you came to know Hux, you’d been them. You’d nursed the places affected by the simulations, numb and yet shocked to find skin, that had so vividly been burned or broken, unmarred. 

Like every other night, you feel tears of anguish prick at your eyes. There’s no way out now, not until you graduate or die. But that’s so far away from now… So far from tonight when you can feel your heart crumbling inside you as your chest constricts. So far from tomorrow, but closer than it is today. You push your knuckles into your mouth and bite down on them, turning onto your stomach. Burying your face in your pillow, you feel it dampen with your tears.

You’ve never felt so tired. It’s the kind of fatigue that poisons your days, the kind of tired that won’t leave your body no matter how much you sleep. You’re living only because you’re breathing, but there’s nothing more to it. Each day you wake and hope uselessly for Hux not to tell you to meet him that night. When he calls you to his room, you undress mechanically and please him the same way. The only satisfaction in it is that you’re too numb to cry, but that’s beaten by him as he pulls your hair and spits on you and tries to humiliate you in the hopes of seeing tears dry on your cheeks.

There’s a hand between your shoulder blades. At first, you relax for it feels so soothing, but then you stiffen for it’s the touch of a stranger. The hand rubs soothing circles along your spine for a moment before tugging lightly at the back of your nightgown.

Your blood freezes in your body, blocking your veins and arteries. Feeble attempts at breaths are thwarted by a mixture of your fist in your mouth and the fact that your face is pressed against your soggy pillow. As the hand tugs again, this time more forcefully, you wonder if this it, if this is death. Will you burn tonight? Are they always kind to the victim or are you being pitied because they  _ know _ ? You think you’ll die knowing that someone else is aware of your arrangement with Hux. Steeling yourself, you sit up slowly. You turn to face what you’re sure will be a crowd, but find only one of your comrades.

A girl. She’s wearing her uniform pants beneath her nightgown, her jacket thrown over it. Her hair is messy and unkempt, falling from the single braid tossed over her shoulder. Reaching for your hand, she pulls you up with her and moves toward the door. There are soft footsteps in the hall, but nothing loud enough to draw attention. They sound like the staff doing their rounds, but the staff rarely does so.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers, shoving you into the hall ahead of her.

“Why are they out of their bunks?” you whisper, stumbling slightly.

The girl ignores you in favor of walking quickly ahead of you. You lose her eventually, but decide to follow a trio heading in the same direction as her. You lose them one by one only to find another comrade to follow. And it goes on like that until you’re standing just outside of a room marked 0000 with a feeling of paralyzing dread sinking in your stomach. Hux told you to stay out of trouble, yet, here you are, walking into it with eyes still red from crying.

It’s an old, empty hall. There are mats pushed against the wall, covered in a thick film of dust. As you watch, comrades trickle in and section themselves off into groups of people they’re friendly with. You stand stupidly by the entrance while they perch themselves on the mats and sit on the floor, speaking quietly as if filling the time before something big. The air feels like that of an assembly and, though you don’t know anyone personally, you feel inexplicably safe surrounded by them.

There’s an upperclassman who’s the top of her class, an amazing fighter destined for greatness in the rise of the Empire’s spawn. She’s stoic usually and unapproachable, but tonight she sits among a small group, smiling normally and speaking excitedly. Normally, she terrifies you, but tonight you feel as though you can speak to her. The comrades here address each other by their first names. It feels so intimate and forbidden.

Now that you’re sure you won’t burn, there’s still that dread resting at the bottom of your stomach, an unwanted guest. You shouldn’t be here. You should be in your bunk drifting off like an infant after a tantrum, but you’re not. And Hux said… It feels as though your body is slowly becoming a target. No, you shouldn’t be here… You’re not quite sure that you want to leave.

Eventually, you move in to mingle with one of the people still standing alone. He’s the boy who gave you the slip and, though he greets you warmly, he doesn’t seem to recognize you. His face is bruised, you’re guessing from his punishment for running, but otherwise his appearance is neat, clean. Pale hair like unbroken, fluid strands of silver, stops at the center of his back. His eyelashes glint beneath the flickering fluorescent light. Who knew skin could be so white? You think he looks like one of the creatures your parents had filled your head with stories of when you were young.

“You,” you say, your voice cracking.

“Pardon?” He raises an eyebrow and smirks at you.

“You got me into this.”

“Did I?” He seems genuinely confused. “I only do it when I’m being chased and I’m only being chased when I do it.”

“It?” you ask, furrowing your brow and crossing your arms over your chest.

“Recruiting,” he replies, glancing at the entrance. “It’s a dangerous job, but I’m the only one trusted to do it.”

You follow his gaze in time to see an upperclassman sauntering in. The way the room falls quiet in awe makes your body buzz with excitement despite your fatigue. Drinking in the sight of him, you’re once more filled with a feeling of safety. He walks confidently, swifty. His hair is dark and shaven around the edges and back in a standard military style, but the very top of it is long enough to graze his chin. It was obviously styled back at some point, but strands now fall across his forehead.

“You’re all here because you know the truth,” he says, reaching the center of the circle of your comrades.

You’re confused, but try not to show it.

“And if you don’t know the truth…” He shrugs, trailing off. “You’re gonna fuckin’ know it before you leave.” His voice is smooth and surprisingly calm. He speaks as though he’s done this before, his stance relaxed, yet filled with power or, at the very least, the promise of it.

The group erupts, cheering as though he’s said something amazing. You survey the group, noting the unresponsive and even confused faces of the people like you while the upperclassman waves his hands to calm the group. And everyone falls silent with just his hands waving once, twice, and they regard him with a reigned in excitement and respect.

“For the new recruits, what  _ is _ the truth?” he shouts, grinning.

“ _ THERE ISN’T AN ANSWER IN THE ASHES! _ ” It’s repeated like a chorus as a multitude of stomping feet makes the walls shake. Again, though, all is silent with his waving hand as quickly as the noise became deafening.

“Which, of course, means that the Academy is full of shit, the Empire was full of shit, and the First Order will be full of shit,” he says calmly, nodding absentmindedly. “And what do we do with shit?”

“ _ WE GET RID OF IT! _ ”

“We’re going to get rid of the First Order starting here, at the Academy. We’re going to destroy the oppressive, corrupt system employed by this side of the galaxy from the inside out,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Which won’t be easy. I’m talking to the fresh faces.” He glances around, catching every stranger’s gaze fleetingly. “Some of us are going to die, but that won’t stop us. Some of us will suffer, but that won’t stop us. Some of will do things so immoral we won’t be able to look at ourselves the same way, but that won’t stop us.” You swear his gaze lingers on you. “All of us will lose something dear to us, but  _ that won’t stop us _ .”

You’re impassioned by the gleam in his eyes, swept into the roar of the crowd as though you know the cause as well as him, as if this group is dear to you. You know you shouldn’t be here, but something about this feels right. Something about this feels like your way out of your current dilemma. For the first time in weeks, you feel alive though you’re also apprehensive.

“New recruits to the center of the circle,” he says, waving his hand for silence again.

It’s a small group, but large enough to not know everyone. You stand toward the end of the line, farthest from the leader. Everyone wears an expression of both fear and pride. A few of the older members weep and cheer as though you’re all a blessing to them. Even the leader regards you as though you’re precious stones to him.

“I’m Ben X, formerly Laurier, and I am the founder of this family,” he says, walking up and down the line. “From now on, you are all no longer comrades, but brothers, sisters, siblings. Gone are the days of isolation. Here, we are a family devoted to the greater good. We’d all die for the other, and kill for the other. It’s never too late to leave, but you’ll never mention this should you go.”

There’s silence save for Ben’s soft voice as he makes his way down the line. You’re confused until he reaches you. He cradles the back of your head, tilting it forward until your foreheads meets. His eyes bore into yours and they’re filled with a fire that burns you pleasantly. He holds the position for a moment before speaking quietly to you, his voice filled with emotion.

“I will die for you for I am your guide and I am devoted to you,” Ben says, conviction on his tongue. “And I will protect you.” He lingers for a moment before pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

You watch him finish the line, but he doesn’t kiss anyone else. Once more, he stands still, addressing the group as a whole.

“We’re done for tonight, but you’ll know when to see me again,” Ben says.

Your eyes narrow in confusion as you watch him leave. The moment he’s out of the door, the rest of your comrades - _ family _ \- begin to follow him in pairs. You stand near the entrance with the pale boy.

“That was it?” you ask, bewildered.

“It was merely an introduction.”

* * *

Everything warm that had existed in you the night of the meeting is gone the moment you set foot in Hux’s quarters. He’s already naked and waiting for you, pacing. He berates you for being two minutes late before ripping your nightgown down, tearing the flimsy straps without a care. Reality washes over you as he pushes you toward the bed, keeping you flat on your stomach with your hands pinned behind you.

Hux breathes heavily as he spreads your thighs with his knees. Curling an arm beneath your hips, he hoists your backside up roughly and leans forward to whisper in your ear. Cold fingers travel the insides of your thighs all the way to their apex. You want to protest, but you bite your lip instead because you knew it was only a matter of time. He leaves for a moment and you hear his camera clicking. He kneels beside you to capture your face as the first tears begin to fall. You turn your face away.

“You know, I’m doing you a favor,” he murmurs. “You’ll thank me when you find out what’s in store for you, you ungrateful brat.”

He stares at you, cradling his cheek in his palm like a child regarding an interesting new discovery. Again, he isn’t fully aware, present, and looks both at and through you. Fading into awareness, with the slow tilting this way and that way of his head, he stands. The young man lingers a moment beside you, palming his erection thoughtfully. He seems to want to do something other than what he’s planning to do, but mentally writes it off as though acquiescing with himself.

And then he’s behind you, spitting into his palm and then smearing his saliva haplessly between your thighs so that your sex becomes all the more sensitive to the cool air in your prone position. You remember similar gestures, gaining similar and opposite reactions from you, and tonight you’re still and open for your assailant. His caress is gentle and measured, meticulous. It’s as though he’s getting a feel for things, noticing what makes your breath hitch for reasons other than tears.

You whimper softly, pathetically, as  your body warms in response to Hux’s ministrations. It feels as though you’re losing, as though your body is betraying you, when you feel yourself grow aroused. Like it’s being played out before you, you can imagine your sex’s lips parted by his fingers, very much like the petals of a flower falling aside to reveal a center expelling a clear dew. A single bead slides quickly from the center to your pearl-like anatomy where it hangs until his fingers gather the wetness.

“How can you cry when your cunt is so ready for me?” Hux murmurs, a playful edge to his tone that contradicts every aspect of your situation.

You clutch the sheet beneath you and let him nudge your thighs farther apart as his fingers dip into your sex. Desperate to ignore him, you try to remember something else, something warm. A birthday, a cool evening, your favorite book, but the more you grasp for memories, the more they slip away. And perhaps this has more to do with the discomfort that grows with each of his digits added to you, invading you.

When he finally penetrates you, he does so quickly as though ripping the scab off of a wound. He groans a lovely low sound that would be heavenly under different circumstances, and wraps his arms around you to embrace you. Holding still for a moment, he lets his lips brush the skin between your shoulderblades. The movement is so intimate that you relax immediately and the initial discomfort of something filling you wanes and is replaced by a warmth and budding desire to be touched and kissed all over. Which only tears an anguished moan from your throat. His fingers return to your clit as he begins to pull out slowly.

Your breath catches. Oh, and you thought the worst had come. It feels like he’s taking your insides with his cock and you want him to hurry up so that the agony will be over soon. Coupled with the stretch of him, the sensation of being turned inside out makes you whine. 

But he enjoys the noises you make and immediately thrusts himself back into you without giving you a moment’s recovery. He kisses your shoulders and neck, his hair falling to graze your skin momentarily. And then he straightens, groping your hips harshly and begins to fuck you with deep, slow thrusts that grow more shallow and quick.

Silently, you beg for mercy in a fast end, but he seems determined to keep up. When he swivels his hip so that his cock strikes some spot within you that elicits the sweetest moans and bursts of intense pleasure, your body shakes and you close your eyes. And he notices, continuing to drive himself into that spot as though it pleases him as much as it pleases you. His fingers slip back and forth against your clit, matching the pace of his thrusts.

After a while, the torture on your insides is dulled to a minor discomfort easily dominated by the waves of rolling pleasure that build. The tension within you grows and you feel a pressure building within your core like a length of rope being stretched, but in the form of something akin to a tingling deep within you. Your body is awakening and you know it. It terrifies you and, though you want to pull away from his crashing hips and harsh fingers, you find yourself moving to meet Hux’s thrust. Your hands are no longer limp, but reach out for him to hold.

And he actually accepts the gesture. Hux intertwines your fingers, running his thumb sweetly and gently along your skin as though you’re lovers. You moan in a mixture of pleasure and a bone splitting sadness. A part of you wants to kiss him because your body begins to feel whole with him like this. Oh, your body is already preparing to miss his and yearn for it while your mind hates him.

You sob when your orgasm hits, every muscle in your body constricting and spasming randomly, as you shudder. With your hips rocking against his, your toes curl and you squeeze his hand tightly, murmuring that you hate him over and over again. He keeps thrusting in and out of you, his length twitching and his movements growing more sporadic. You’re sensitive and you swear you can feel each spasm of his length.

Suddenly, you try to scramble away from him, realizing why his grip is growing tighter as you come down from your orgasmic haze. And you feel so dirty, even more so, when he mumbles your name tightly, pulls yo harshly against him, and spills into you without warning. His breath is ragged and wild as his grip slackens. For the longest moment, he says nothing.

“I’ve never had anyone struggle at the last moment like that,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

Hux pulls away from you. You feel his softening penis fall from you along with his semen pushed out of you by the aftershocks of your orgasm. It feels like an impossibly large amount that dribbles along the petals of your sex that is now closing once more in his retreat. You hear his camera begin to click again and then he makes you turn onto your back, spreading your thighs to leave you exposed. You throw your arm over your face and bite your lip as more tears fall while he documents your pain. He only asks for one photograph without your arm covering your face, and then he stands to bathe.

“You’ll thank me for this one day.”

* * *

You run into a familiar face on your way out of Hux’s quarters one evening. Yes,  _ evening _ . You’ve been called on early because the building is empty for the most part with nearly the entirety of the male population attending debutante balls. They’re in season once more, as they always are at the beginning of each quarter of the year. Some of the females are gone, too, to their own.

At any rate, you’re getting dressed when he enters Hux’s quarters without knocking. His face is drawn and serious as he address the young man in a clipped, polite tone. For some reason, his voice is soft, higher than usual and he seems to have folded in upon himself, making his body appear smaller than it is. He winks when he sees you, unfolding for a moment, and you understand.

“This is Laurier, my assistant,” Hux says, without turning to face either of you. “He’s one of the few knowledgeable comrades. Should there ever be any  _ incidents _ , he’ll be the one to alleviate them.”

As if on queue, the raven haired boy produces a handkerchief and approaches you. Instead of handing the small square of cloth to you, he wets it on the tip of his tongue and lightly dabs at the corner of your mouth with it, meeting your gaze with grave eyes. His other hand comes up to hold the back of your head as he did that night and you feel safe once more. Your cheeks burn as you realize why he’s cleaning the corner of your mouth when he speaks.

“We must be careful and avoid tastelessness when handling matters such as these,” he says, fixing you with a cool gaze. “We wouldn’t want the truth to come out, would we? Some can’t handle it."

 


	5. Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux wants to get rid of his fiancee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than usual, but meh

Part of what makes Hux so dangerous is the fact that he doesn’t seem nearly as dangerous as he is. In public, he’s calm and unwavering. He can be cruel without a thought or hesitation. His expression rarely shifts from the vaguely disgusted grimace he usually wears. There was a time when he was a sweet thing, when a handsome face and feigned charm weren’t so deceiving.

Picture a boy with round cheeks and striking red hair, beautiful pale eyelashes that grazed his youthful cheeks when his eyes fluttered shut, and there’s the image of a boy the world knew would one day be molded into the perfect tiny monster for his father. Picture chubby fingers intertwined with slender digits, clinging with a muted strength to a woman’s hand. Picture his cheeks sticky with the morning’s jam. Picture his eyes still so oblivious to what lay before him. It’s all gone now.

He’s visiting his mother for the first time in too many nights. Every time he returns to her, he’s colder, and she knows it. But what’s there to be done when that ice building in him may very well one day be the only thing to save him? Long for the sweet boy, but he’s safer this way, safer hard and closed off with icy eyes.

Hux weaves his way through the maze of narrow halls, the noise of the villagers still loud in his ears even within the building. Music plays loudly from some levels below, a live performance in a seedy establishment. The tenants are loud and he can hear them argue, hear a distant thumping of someone being tossed around. The halls reek of urine and alcohol, blood among other bodily fluids. The odor is reminiscent of his childhood and makes his mind flood with the images of warmth in his mother’s arms.

Half clothed humans drape themselves around the narrow halls with sunken, staring eyes, and painted face. Golden bands cling to their arms, showing their status. Hux hastens his pace as he passes them, his stomach churning at the sight of boy younger than the youngest Academy students. Their eyes follow him all the way down the hall until he turns into his mother’s apartment.

It’s quiet, but he can hear her moving around somewhere. She answers when he calls out, emerging a few moments later with a quiet child on her hip and an older girl closer to his age trailing behind her. Armitage doesn’t recognize them, so he only acknowledges his mother with a curt nod when he sees them. The girl is most likely another poor worker who came to visit his mother with her child, seeking assistance with something.

Hux doesn’t have much time. He’s only on the planet for a quick pick up for the Academy and his comrades will be waiting for him soon and if they wait his father will know and if his father knows… he’d rather not know what will come of it. All Hux knows is that his father views the poor woman who carried his child as little more than a weakness, a spot of emotional instability for the young Hux.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” his mother says, handing the child over to the girl.

“I wasn’t planning to visit,” Hux replies, dismissively.

“Oh?” His mother stops short of him, her outstretched hand falling dejectedly back down to her hip.

“No, but I’ve missed you, Mother.” Hux pauses, eyeing the girl now hanging back suspiciously before closing the distance between himself and his mother. He takes her hand when she offers it and lets her cup his cheek delicately as if he is still a fragile thing. “The Academy is on holiday. I met my future wife a few days ago.”

“Did you like her?”

“Father…” Hux scowls at the mysterious girl. “Matters to be discussed in privacy… You don’t need to hear the details anyway…”

This will be his only chance to contact his mother for what may very well be another year, but what’s there to be done? He has no time, he can’t send letters, he’s not meant to know where she is, yet here he is. There’s that weak longing his father is always telling him to ignore. But it’s rooted only in a desire to be honest with just one person in the universe who isn’t afraid he’ll kill them, just one human who cares deeply for him. Yes, even monsters want to confide in someone and be loved.

Such is partially his reason for constantly picking up people like you. To be obeyed, to be intimate in comparison to being understood and cared for. He doesn’t see himself ever loving anyone, and he doesn’t see himself ever being loved by anyone. It doesn’t bother him, but he’s human at his core. He still yearns for companionship.

“I’m not in love with her,” Hux says finally. “I don’t even want to touch her, but I’ll do as I must.”

He’s not a tragic love story. He’s simply like any other affluent member of society marrying for power rather than affection. Of course, he knows he’s meant to be civil to his future wife, but he can’t even be civil with a person he regularly fucks. Is it that, though? At any rate, he’s trying not to dwell on the subject of romance or sex in relation to his future because he doesn’t see this engagement going anywhere.

“But if I can get rid of her, I will.”

* * *

You wake to a stillness that is at first unnerving until you turn onto your side and take in the sight of your empty bunk. The dread building in you rolls off of you, falling away from your body like the unnecessary thing it is because no one will burn tonight. No one will be here tonight, save for the few students who are staying because they have no business off campus for the next gathering of days.

The Academy attempts to avoid holidays, but recognizes that a vast majority of its students will amount to nothing in the scheme of things. The brightest will go on to be lieutenants, commanders, generals, captains, and the like, while the majority will revert to their familial statuses as disciplined young adults. Which is exactly why events such as the Burning aren’t close to ending. They’re cleansings of sorts. The weak would have gone on to either ruin their family names or returned to the lives of average beings. Or they would have usurped positions of power from golden blooded comrades such as Hux or even yourself.

Yes, your blood is respected. But you aren’t. You’d like to believe you’d be a better student if you weren’t so terrified of your comrades. The only reason you’re improving is because you’ve been trying to fill your mind with things other than memories of Hux which means training harder than ever. Today, though, you know you’ll spend taking easy. The place between your thighs throbs painfully. It seems every encounter with Hux grows worse and worse, as though he wants you to suffer.

You get out of bed, moving slowly through stretches until the stiffness of your body has left you. And then you stand by the window, basking in the pale light that pours in through the bars on the windows. You can hear people moving about in the hallway, but for a moment, the world is solely yours and you’re unafraid of reality, willing to sleep because you don’t fear seeing _him_ in the realm of unconsciousness, and the stale air feels like sunlight on your skin. But it’s only a moment. Soon you’re a student again and you know he’ll call for you soon because he has nothing better to do. Sighing, you work your features into an impassive facade before dressing and leaving your quarters.

The idea of Laurier being both Hux’s minion and the leader of an underground revolution bothers you. It’s been bothering you for days since you found out. In both roles, he seems sincere and true. There’s never anything wavering in him. He’s a stone either way he plays himself, but you believe he’s loyal to his rebellion. Perhaps that’s only because you’re deluding yourself into being hopeful. Perhaps you don’t want to see the part of him like Hux simply because you spend every moment out of the young Hux’s company trying to cleanse yourself of him.

You’re growing weary. A fatigue that can’t be fought clings to you like the cold and you don’t sleep because you both expect to be called and can’t close your eyes without feeling him. Every morning, you jolt awake. There are no dreams, only a desire to escape. You’d never considered an arranged marriage seriously before, but lately your mother’s hopeful letters are too tempting. You want to be strong, you want to be a part of the downfall of the Republic, but you feel ruined, too ruined to be of any use. All because of Hux. Because the fear of the Burning hadn’t terrified you to the point of losing sleep every night.

Laurier is waiting  for you outside of your room, wearing a coy smile. He seems to look through you rather than at you and you wait patiently for him to speak, trying not to seem too curious about his good mood. You know you’re not supposed to be too familiar with him at moments even like this, so you say nothing and treat him with the same formality you face any other comrade with.

“Is this his way of telling me my morning is his?” you ask.

“But it is not entirely his, nor entirely yours, perhaps a portion to each, but not entirely to either,” Laurier replies, waving his hand and motioning you forward.

You’re not in the mood for playing games, so you choose to ignore Laurier for the rest of the walk to Hux’s quarters. Your throat grows tight with each step closer to him until it feels like it’ll collapse upon itself, but it doesn’t. There’s something in the air, a lingering scent of sweet perfume and the presence of someone dainty and desiring to preserve their fragility. Apprehension bubbles in your stomach. You step into his room, but Laurier stops outside with a look of absolute glee written across his features.

And then suddenly you understand why.

“Who is she, Armitage?”

You narrow your eyes at the girl, more confused than irritated by a mixture of the surprise of her presence and the question. Your eyes dart automatically to the wall, searching for your picture, but there’s nothing there. Frowning, your head swivels back to Hux who looks like he’s more or less trying to shake the girl off of his arm like she’s an irritating thing. You get the sense that he’s been doing this for a while and simply doesn’t have the will to try anymore. For a short moment, you’re filled with hope because there’s a new girl to replace you, but you know better than to assume that. You know Hux would never allow one of his toys to cling like that.

“Mittie, who is she?” she asks.

She looks like a doll with her small mouth and large eyes, her clear skin and slender body, her frilly, childish gown, and curled, pale hair. She looks out of place in this room, but not because of the furniture. Brimming with life in a room that has watched your degradation night upon night upon night. Scowling at you, she tugs more insistently at her dear _Mittie_ ’s arm.

You’re sickened. Bile rises in your throat at the way she holds him like she’s possessive of him. Fighting back the urge to tell her to run away before she really knows him, you give Hux your full attention somewhat hesitantly. It feels strange to not be entirely alone in his quarters, but he makes no move to make the girl go, he only steps toward you, shaking her off.

“Show her what you are to me,” he says, softly.

Your bottom lip trembles and you close your eyes. You don’t know what’s going on between him and the girl, but you know you don’t want to do this in front of her. Oh, you don’t want to do it at all. And Laurier knew, but gave you no warning… You don’t know who you hate more in the moment.

Still, you sink to your knees in front of Hux, your eyes never leaving his until he grabs your chin and angles your face toward the girl.

“Look into Cressida’s eyes while you do it.”

So you do because you know your life depends on it. Your eyes don’t leave her as you fumble with his belt the way you always do. They don’t waver even when confusion meets your gaze, and her eyes flicker from you to Hux as though she expects him to make you stop though he’s the one who told you to do this. Feeling his palm on your cheek, his fingers stroking lightly at your burning skin, you want to cry, you feel your stomach twist with an overwhelming anxiety, but you keep your face emotionless and continue.

She looks away the moment you take his penis into your mouth as you’ve done so many times before, and she stares at him. You can hear him moaning exaggeratedly and you know he’s probably tilting his head back, wearing an expression of pure bliss to rub it in her face. Her features are the image of inner turmoil. The years of high society’s training keep her from acting, but you know she wants to. You imagine there was a time when you were as subservient without the threat of death hanging over your head.

Eventually, she simply stands and watches you with eyes like a wounded animal. You know you should feel a bit more regret, but a part of you is flooded with relief because you think this will keep her away. She seems so soft and pure being ruined by witnessing something she didn’t want to see.

When it’s all over, she says nothing, and he says nothing, and she watches him, and he watches you.


	6. Actors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux is acting strange, but it truly is only an act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually sundays are supposed to be my writing days, but, ya know, merry chrysler, so I took a break, but then I felt bad and wanted to get a chapter out today, so it's really late and rushed, but here it is!

The rain begins again on a quiet afternoon. You’re in the garden when it starts, quietly observing the flora there. There’s nothing to see but plants so ugly they’re beautiful and scuttling creatures weaving their way around puddles and roots, so you’re not exactly reluctant to return to the building when the rain begins softly at first. Still, you hesitate beneath the light downpour, glancing at the darkened windows.

A figure stands silent, a silhouette that nearly blends into the grimy window. But they’re there, watching, waiting, too patient for your comfort. It seems Hux had become preoccupied with your presence since… well, _since_. He hasn’t called on you in the two days between then and now, but he’s been lurking like a shadow just out of sight, but undeniably there. He relieved Ben of the task of watching you, or at least it appears to be so.

Averting your gaze, you slip into the building pulling your jacket tighter around you. If he wants to stare and be quiet, so be it. It’s preferable to being made to please him to entertain his guests. You’d rather be watched by him than be watched by that girl again. Oh, there was something wretched in her gaze as she watched you leave _then_.

Cressida has taken to following Hux, watching him watch you, but you wouldn’t know that if Ben hadn’t mentioned it, amused, in passing earlier. A part of you wishes the red haired young man would focus on the fair girl and leave you alone. She’s not a pet, though. She’s a groomed girl with money and power and no desire to be degraded for the sake of preserving her being. How lucky… You’re filled with envy just thinking about it.

You feel completely and utterly naive now that you know. The girl has her eyes bound to Hux and, yet, you thought you were scaring her off, helping her, when he had you on your knees for her. Bile rises in your throat. The scene replays in your mind. You taste him on your tongue, that familiar bitter taste filling your mouth, the sticky consistency mixing with your saliva. A coldness settles over your chest.

The only reason you’ve been able to sleep is because the cleaners complained about your shrieking in the night. All it takes is one shot a few minutes before curfew, and you no longer wake screaming. No, in your sleep the screams build in your throat, but are stuck behind your lips. And you suffer the night through without pause. There are no breaks between nightmares. There are simply points in which the situation progresses from sickening to horrifying. His pale hands, icy eyes, chapped lips, hair like flames’ lashing tongues.

The walk to the bunks is quiet and devoid of life. There’s a layer of dust settling over things as it does whenever these breaks fall and the cleaners, who are really only the scholarship students, allow their ethic to dull. All of the doors are shut tightly. Silence feels deafening. You seek to fill the corridors with something other than the quiet, walking so that your feet tap against the floors a bit louder than necessary.

She’s waiting for you. On your bed, flipping through the pages of the journal you kept your first year at the academy. Her flaxen hair is loose, the curls frizzy and wild. There are circles beneath her eyes, her face clear of makeup and deathly pale. She wears a thin gown, a thin strap hanging off one narrow shoulder.

“You know, you always look like you’re about to cry,” Cressida says, softly.

You say nothing.

“But I’ve only ever really seen you up close now and when you performed fellatio on my fiancé.” Her eyes shift to your face, resting there a moment.

You avert your gaze, standing awkwardly just inside the room. A coldness settles over your chest, wrapping icy fingers around your heart and making every movement of your diaphragm painful.

“I’m not jealous,” Cressida murmurs. “It happens to everyone. In fact, I’m quite pleased to see Armitage being so open, honest, with me.”

“Do you hear yourself?” you blurt out, frowning.

“Do you _see_ yourself?” she replies, waving her hand dismissively. “He doesn’t touch me. Perhaps that can be changed…”

You look away again, catching the way she looks at you, a kind of wonder in her eyes. It’s the look children get when they see images of soldiers, generals, the way people look at Hux sans the fear. Like you’re someone to be admired. The look feels like something dirty caught beneath your skin. The only thing she’s seen you do, you don’t want to be admired for that.

“Armitage asked me to deliver these to you.” She holds out two boxes, both thin and rectangular, but one much larger than the other. She walks over to you and offers the larger box to you first, her eyes shining with glee.

“What are they?” You take the box and hold it gingerly, eyeing it apprehensively.

“You’ll like it,” she whispers.

You know you won’t. You can feel that much from the lightness of the package in comparison to the eager way she watches you, holding the smaller parcel close to her body as though she’s saving it for later. For her to stick around even after… There must be something terribly wrong with her, you’re sure of it. She doesn’t seem desperate, only entertained.

Lingerie. It’s all thin strips of fabric not meant to cover anything modest. No, its sole purpose is to put everything on display as though you’re naked. Hux will need only to push aside a small bit of fabric to penetrate you. The sight of it makes your blood run cold.

“He demanded that you wear it when you see him.”

“When?”

“Well, he’s been waiting all morning.” A smile crosses her lips, tilting her head. “He asked me to make sure you put it on. He wants you to wear only that when you see him.”

“He wants me to walk in the hallways like this? There’s nothing to this! I’ll be naked.” You shake your head, but you know you’ll do as he says because it’s what you must do.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” She taps her foot, expectantly.

“That other box is for me, too, isn’t it?” You ask, stalling, as your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You know you’re not allowed to tell her to go if she wants to watch you like a hawk. She’s like Hux in a way, flexing her authority, but with the most innocent, girlish smile.

“He doesn’t want you to open it until he’s with you. You should start getting dressed or he’ll be angry…” She giggles and steps away from you to view you fully.

You turn your back to her and peel off each layer of your leasure wear until you stand bare before her. It’s the same as the first time you undressed for Hux, but this time you're not afraid. Such lack of fear allows humiliation to penetrate your being with an unspeakable intensity until you feel as though the kindest option the world could offer would be to end itself.

You dress quickly before fixing your hair, styling it away from your face with the thought of keeping his semen out of it. But the styling is useless because you know he’ll ruin it without much prompting before he gives you the chance to protest. You wouldn’t protest. You don’t want to anger him or do anything to irritate him.

Cressida’s eyes never leave you. When you turn, you get the feeling that she’s scrutinizing you. He face screws up in concentration as though she’s trying to reason out a non sequitur. Smiling dazedly, for the briefest of moments her inner anguish flashes in her eyes.

“I don’t understand what you have that I don’t,” she says, and her smile falters. Her eyes are empty, unbelievably so. “Does he see you every night?”

You shake your head and bring your hands up to cover your chest. Not every night. But enough to make it feel like a routine.

“Do you only pleasure him, or does he touch you, too?”

“It depends.”

There’s no more conversation on the way to Hux’s room. Cressida watches you with a startling vigilance, but remains civil and silent. She hands the box to you before you slip into his room and she doesn’t attempt to follow you in or call out to Hux. You get the feeling that she’s not allowed in by the pleading look that fills her eyes.

Hux smiles when he sees you, a genuine smile that isn’t a smirk or little more than a grimace. He moves to walk over to you and stumbles slightly. A pink hue colors his cheeks as bright as the ribbons Cressida wears in her hair. For a moment, he glances around as if utterly confused, but quickly recovers.

You know Hux. You know the color of his hair when it’s wet, the pink that rises to the surface of his skin when he’s soaked in steaming bath for too long, the way his skin prunes for the same reason, and the way wetness clings to his lashes after he bathes like dew on grass early in the morning. He’s not the subject of a romance. And he’s not an object affected by affections. No, he’s just a man, more or less a stranger. You don’t even want to consider him a man, but this is someone or something different tonight.

As you watch him, he draws a finger across his glistening lips. His eyes drink in the sight of you unabashedly. A low groan escapes him and his smile returns, this time tainted by eroticism.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Absolutely _stunning_.”

You shift uncomfortably, unsure of how to react to his good mood.

“What?” He tilts his head and his eyes flash as his smile takes on a sinister edge. There he is, the usual him. “Are you incapable of accepting a compliment?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, looking into the familiar cool irides.

“You haven’t opened the gift yet, have you?” Hux asks, stopping before you.

“No, not yet.” You glance down at the pale box and then back up at the young man.

“And that brat didn’t tell you what’s inside?” He gestures toward the door before addressing it, or, rather, _Cressida_ , yelling, “You’ll do well to quit your meddling, you spoiled little bitch.”

“No, she didn’t tell me anything other than you said not to open it.”

He nods, scowling at you, before taking the box. “You remember what I told you when we began this, right?”

“That you’d protect me,” you whisper.

“How does that relate to this?” he asks, coolly. “Use your head. You’re not the daft clinging thing outside. You know I’m being kinder than usual. What did I say?”

“That you wouldn’t develop romantic feelings for me,” you answer, and an unwarranted relief floods you. You hadn’t realized you expected something more from the gesture of affection.

“Good girl.” He smirks at you. “These are rewards for your little show the other night.”

You nod and watch him open the small box, holding it carefully in his white hands. He lifts the lid slowly, tilting the box so that you can’t easily see the contents. But you know it’s a necklace when he lifts it from the box. A thin necklace with a chain woven with thin, silver links that give off a fragile appearance.

Hux walks around you, obviously satisfied with himself. He speaks as he places the necklace around your neck and secures it, clipping it shut. Though it lay physically light, virtually unnoticeable against your skin, it feels as heavy and foreboding as a noose.

“I’ve been drinking spirits, so forgive me for my inarticulacy, but I believe it is said that men give women jewelry for the same reason people give their pets collars.” His lips brush your neck as he peers at the necklace over your shoulder. He balances the pendant of his house’s crest on the tip of his index finger and his warm breath fans out across your skin like muted flames against you. “Do you know why people make their pets wear collars?”

You bite your lip, unwilling to play along with him. Still, you mull over the concept of Hux lacking in sobriety. As you’re wondering how he’ll be when he takes you, he responds to his own question.

“Of course you do, you’re only being stubborn.” He chuckles dryly to himself. “It’s to show possession. I _own_ you, sweet thing. Say that, tell me I own you.”

“You own me, Master,” you whisper. Your stomach churns.

“You’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Master.”

The man strokes your hair slowly. “Yes, you’re mine. Your body is mine. Your career is mine. Your life is mine.”

His hands fall upon your breast, palms covering your bare nipples hardened by the coolness of the corridors. Falling slowly down your body, his hands take in your form while you hold your breath. It isn’t often that the young Hux takes his time and caresses you, knowing your body. Even when he takes you, he usually avoids any unnecessary contact. Now, as his hands flow over your body as easily and smoothly as water flowing over pebbles, you understand why. It’s nearly romantic, the way he takes his time savoring your form.

“You may call me Armitage,” he murmurs, and his voice isn’t entirely his.

Your body warms and you close your eyes, for once enjoying the way he touches you for this is not Hux, but someone entirely different. These careful digits don’t belong to Hux. They’re too careful and lithe. Oh, how can he be so meticulous while inebriated? He’s lighting a flame of hope in you and you know it. It’s a trap, you think, but what is he luring you into with his wet lips on your neck, his warm touch caressing softly your nipples, teasing them until they’re fully erect? Vigilance slips away from you.

Armitage guides you to the bed so slowly, yet swiftly, that you don’t realize what he’s done until your there. Occasionally, his fingers dig harshly into your flesh. When he turns you around and gazes into your eyes, even his eyes aren’t his. His bed is an oasis and he doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs, doesn’t have to force them apart, because your body responds perfectly to this new side of him and all the while, your mind keeps replaying all the terrible things he’s ever done to you.

It feels as though he’s kissing the wounds he’s left on your mind when he kisses your lips like a starving lover reunited with his darling after a time apart. Has such a short absence really made him this way? What’s he doing? Where’s his camera? Shouldn’t you be on your knees?

But you’re not.

Instead, you’ve become a tangled extension of him. He pushes aside the strip of fabric that covers your sex, kissing his way down your body as he does. You grip his sheets when his mouth meets your folds, tongue carefully parting the skin wetted by your desire for this new side of the young man. Still, a sense of panic lingers in your mind. This must be the calm before the storm.

Armitage is beautiful between your thighs. _Beautiful_. With his hair falling into glassy eyes gazing up at you to measure your reaction to even the smallest flick of his tongue until he finds the rhythm you like. His fingers spread across your stomach, his palm pinning your hips down. The veins of his arm are pronounced and the sight of them only lights your already burning flame. When he comes back up to kiss you with that unfamiliar hunger, he peels off the useless fabric covering your skin and plunges his member deep within you.

And from there you’re lost. From there, you’re his, but you’re not. You belong to Armitage and he belongs to you. And you don’t stop until it feels as though time has stopped for you and it’s impossible to tell if it’s day or night.

When you lay completely worn out and tangled in his sheets, your body still thrumming with the electricity of satisfaction, he gazes at you, sobering slowly. As he sobers, his eyes grow cooler and the panic that had been subdued grows harder to ignore, but he catches you while you’re still dreaming.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” Armitage whispers.

“No,” you promise.

“They’re doing something, aren’t they?”

You can’t bring yourself to speak, so you nod instead. There’s no turning back now. Funny, you can’t help but think, how you’ve worked yourself into so many corners like this where turning back is no longer an option.

* * *

Laurier is calm when he comes to collect you just outside of Hux’s quarter’s, sobbing and pulling at the gown Hux gave you to wear for the sake of decency.

It’s late and he’s obviously tired, but he lets you babble on without asking for you to repeat yourself, catching every word as it falls from your lips until there is nothing left to catch. And then there is a long pause in which he processes everything down to the finest detail. Then and only then do the questions begin. He speaks softly and pats your back reassuringly.

“And did you tell him any names?” he asks, his voice sounding like a song.

“I don’t _know_ any names.” You wipe your cheeks clumsily as a superior officer passes the two of you.

“Mine?”

“No,” you whisper.

“Shame, I would have liked to become a martyr for the cause,” he murmurs.

Laurier pauses suddenly to roll a makeshift cigarette. He hums as he works, nodding his head to the tune. It’s a song popular with older people, a sad love song about an idiot boy and a clever girl who is outsmarted by the idiot.

“You should have come to me earlier,” the raven haired boy says, sighing. “No, I should’ve come to you… But I enjoy the show too much sometimes… I lose myself from time to time.”

“Should we be worried?”

“You? No,” Laurier says. He tilts his head from side to side as though mentally weighing his options. “As long as your body works, Hux won’t let anything happen to you.”

You pause, staring at him.

“You look surprised…” Laurier stands and begins to walk again. “But it’s true. It may seem that he has a constant supply of comrades to take advantage of, but he needs them desperate. The kind of girls who would thank him for buying a scarf if he watched their village burn. You know the type, desperate and destitute. But that’s all beside the point. The point is that Hux won’t be getting rid of you any time soon because he’s a sick bastard with the taste of a sicker bastard and most of the girls here aren’t easily trapped.”

“What are you saying?”

“You have a small power over him. If he can convince himself you’re innocent, he’ll always defend you,” Laurier says. “And he’ll always think you’re innocent as long as you’re begging him.”

“What are you going to do?” you ask, softly.

“Run, of course. We’ll meet again. Two nights after the rest return. We’ll speak then.”


	7. Let This Be a Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux and Laurier seek to obtain your loyalty and respect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Blood, Violence, Self Inflicted Body Mutilation

You’re just emerging from a near sleep when you hear it: a scream.

A door slams open somewhere in the distance. There’s the noise of a struggle. It’s a noise reminiscent of the beginning of the Burning, but not quite without the noise of a multitude of feet on the floor and ominous chanting. Somehow, the lack of such feels more eerie, foreboding. Your bunkmates are waking, crowding around the door, but not leaving. One speaks, quietly relaying what he sees.

You sit up and glance around, squinting in the darkness, too fatigued to be fully thrust into the panic and dread filling the dorm. There’s a thought scratching at the back of your mind, trying to piece something together that won’t fit. It’s a shattered vase missing a fragment. But you know better than to stay in bed, seeing the last few of your bunkmates slipping out of their bunks. You walk quickly toward the door, masking your unease with a feigned curiosity.

“What is it? What’s going on?” you murmur, forcing your way to the door.

Whatever’s going on must be terrible or they’d be in the corridor. When students are pulled from their bunks for punishment, your comrades spill out to watch. If there’s something to be seen, you’ve always known your comrades to watch without shame, as though the happening occurred solely for their entertainment.

“The doors are locked,” someone says, and the bunk falls silent as you exchange grave looks.

The corridor goes silent. You prepare to retreat to your bed, confused with your mind racing. A burst of static fills the dorm, growing louder with each passing breath. Every soul seems to pause as if time itself has reached them all, slowing their bodies.

“A group of your comrades has been working to undo everything we have built. They seek to ruin us. To ruin our vision. They’re animals, blind rebels brainwashed by the ideals of the Republic.”

Hux . Not his father, but Armitage. 

A tremor runs through you and you close your eyes, shaking your head. It’s a movement easily misread by your comrades, each showing their own form of disdain for the topic of a group of rebellious students. They whisper disgustedly, tossing out the names of those they view as weak, guessing blindly who might be involved. Someone pats your shoulders, murmuring in agreement as they shake their head, too. Your eyes widen, but you say nothing, show nothing, for fear of giving yourself away.

There’s nothing here to stop them from tearing you apart, from tearing anyone apart with their bare hands. They already look so angry, betrayed, as though they’ve faced the comrades being carted away for an adequate punishment.

The pale light of an illuminated screen brings you back to reality. You wrestle free of coils of suffocating thoughts as your comrades fall in upon each other, pushing to view the scene playing out before them. A bare room furnished only with six chairs.

Your eyes widen. Only six. There were more. There are more people involved, but there are only six on the screen, all with shaking shoulders. Tears mix with snot running in streams down their faces. There are six blasters pressed against their temples, faceless strangers standing behind them ready to take the murdering shot. You bite your lip and watch, with a blank face.

A smile spreads across your lips to mimic the smirks of your comrades. You start the round of cheers, eager to fake eagerness. And inside you are ice because you know this isn’t the end, because you know Hux has been holding back since he got you, waiting patiently for the perfect opportunity to lash out. This is it. Everything else has been the calm before the storm. Everything else has been nothing but a ruse, a taste of suffering mixed with bliss like blood and wine swirling in a glass.

“This is what happens to dissenters. This is what happens to those who desire chaos. This is the entropy they so desire,” Hux says. You can picture his expression, his lips curling into a pleased grimace.

Someone screams when it happens. Beside you, a scream rings out in the silence, one of pure terror, as the bodies slump all at once. The scene lingers before your eyes, taunting you, as someone else’s palm shoots up to muffle the terrified scream. The screamer thrashes, his eyes widening, and you know he’s never seen it before: death.

“Let this be a warning. Anyone who tries to break the chain of order will be disposed of.”

The message is heard. You quit.

 

* * *

 

You can’t avoid Laurier or Hux for long.

Still, you spend your three days of reprieve doing just that. And it works. For a while. You eat breakfast earlier than usual, retire to your bunk earlier, but not too early to avoid drawing attention to yourself. You adjust your bathing schedule, bathing in the middle of the day during your allotted leisure time. Otherwise, you make sure you’re never far from an instructor because you know Hux is too preoccupied with keeping up appearances to let anyone in on your agreement who doesn’t need to know about it. He cares too much about what his father thinks of him. But Hux knows you too well already The moment you get antsy he sends for you in the form of Laurier.

Laurier has been watching you since you missed the scheduled meeting. He won’t mention it, but the small act of cowardice terrifies him. He’s been planning the bulk of your plans around your loyalty to him, to the small rebellion. Fear from you is something he can’t have. No, it’s something that must not be.

He’s thinking of this when Hux summons him to his quarters. It’s always an effort to transform into the submissive right hand man he was born to be for Hux when he spent the entire night loathing the man. Still, he sits with the fiery haired male, imbibing spirits and smoking cigarettes stolen from the instructors’ wing as though they’re friends. Laurier turns the conversation to you when Hux mentions the punishment of the rebels.

“Your pet seems to be lacking in…” Laurier trails off, glancing at Hux.

Hux frowns, glares at the raven haired male expectantly.

“Forgive me, it’s nothing.” Laurier chuckles to himself, and waits.

“Lacking in what?” Hux snaps, scowling.

“Well, it’s only that she’s certainly something.” Laurier stares into the liquid in his cup. “Involving herself with a group like that while devoted to you… It’s disrespectful.”

Hux falls straight into the trap. He stands suddenly, tossing his glass against the wall in a fit of drunken rage. Laurier is right. What you’re doing  is blatant disrespect. He saves your life and this is how you repay him? And he’d been forced to draw the information from you because you wouldn’t share it with him. Where was your loyalty? He’d been so busy trying to unravel the workings of the tiny rebellion (which really isn’t as small as he thinks it is) that he hadn’t stopped to analyze your behavior.

You don’t fear him enough. There’s no respect, that much is obvious. Otherwise you would have volunteered your knowledge before he had to ask you if you were involved. And you’re such a terrible liar. He hadn’t truly suspected you were involved when he first warned you of the rebellion, but those guilty eyes had been so easy to read. And he’d let you play because he knew it would all lead up to this. He’d known you would be affected by the message. He didn’t consider the matter any further.

But now. He can’t let this be. Perhaps, you’re afraid now, terrified even, but you have no reason to refrain from straying as things stand now. Fear will fade. It must be instilled constantly, or you’ll grow complacent. He can’t let you become comfortable playing like the little traitor you are. He’ll have to show you what you’ll face if you want to play both sides. He’ll have to show you the consequences, the price you’ll pay.

Hux is usually stable. He prides himself in his calm demeanor and ability to handle himself even when he wants nothing more than to let his rage consume him, but he’s inebriated. His resolve has dulled. The more sadistic parts of him he’s been trying so desperately to forget, to move on from, claw at the edges of his being. He knows he should save this anger for a cause, turning it into passion, but he suddenly wants to ensure your submission. He wants to see you in the same light as his previous pets. He’s been far too lenient.

However, there’s solid reasoning beside such leniency. He grows messy when he purges sexually as he once did. He must control himself.

“I’m sure she’s already scheming again,” Laurier says, pleased to see his superior so upset.

“Bring her to me now.” He doesn’t want to control himself.

Laurier can barely contain his excitement as he hurries from Hux’s quarters. He knows you just need a stronger reason to want take Hux down. Right now, you’re too hopeful. You’re too submissive. You still view Hux as a savior of sorts for keeping you alive and you don’t believe you can take the man down. All he has to do is make you upset enough to feel that you can take Hux down with his help. And then everything else will fall into place.

It’s late and the corridors are quiet. He feels like singing as he draws closer and closer to your bunk. When he reaches your door, he walks twice back and forth before it as he always does to gain your attention.

Your heart sinks when you hear his footsteps, that familiar foreboding noise. You drag yourself out of bed, ridding yourself of your underwear before you slip out of the room. As usual, no one says anything to you. If they notice, they know better than to meddle.

“You missed the meeting,” Laurier says the moment you’re in the corridor with him.

“I can’t do that anymore…” You don’t look at him, but begin to walk toward Hux’s quarters.

“Now is not the time for you to run,” he murmurs, softly, “Now is the time to mourn the loss of our brothers and sisters.”

“What are you saying? They’ll kill us all and film it.” Your lip trembles.

“Death has always been a part of the deal.”

“Well, you never said I couldn’t leave,” you hiss, stopping suddenly.

“I said I’d die for you for I am your guide and I am devoted to you,” Laurier says, and he sounds like Ben again, like the boy from the meeting whose eyes filled you with hope. “And I will protect you.”

“Don’t you get it?” You shake your head before meeting his eyes burning brightly in the darkness. You wish you could see his face without the shadows to read his expression. “You can’t protect me. You couldn’t protect them.”

“They died for the cause,” Laurier growls, losing his composure.

He wants to reach out and strangle you where you stand. How can you speak like that when you knew from the beginning what it meant to know the truth? You knew what was on the line. He forces himself to calm down. He can’t take Hux down alone. He needs the man distracted. He needs you. Hux will tell you things, things he’ll never tell Laurier, and he needs to know those things.

“The cause? What have you done beside spew nonsense about family and martyrdom?” You step back, away from the young man. “You claim to care about justice, but you help Hux. You help him hurt me. You don’t have to do that.”

“And I suppose Cressida doesn’t have to either.” Laurier reaches blindly for you in the dark, gripping your shoulders tightly and dragging you back to him. “Every damn thing here is about keeping up appearances. People lie to push their own agendas. We’re born into roles. I mean, look at you. You were on your knees in front of Cressida with her fiancé's cock in your mouth without a word of protest because you  know ! You know your place. And you were willing to accept it because you know he’ll let you die if you don’t.”

You stumble when Laurier lets go of you, but you rush him, shoving him against the wall the moment you’re steady. Your fingers wrap around his throat, but you know your anger is misguided. He’s only telling the truth. His Adam’s apple bobs beneath your digits, his pulse thrumming smoothly against your thumbs. You could kill him now. You let go. It’s not his fault.

“If you want your justice, get it yourself,” he spits, leaning so that his nose brushes yours.

Laurier grins when your fist connects with his jaw. He’s won. You’re angry and you’ll only grow angrier after Hux is through with you. He shuffles, trying to right himself. It takes all of his focus to keep the glee from his voice when he speaks next.

“You know who can help you.”

“I can’t,” you cry. “This is it for me until I leave this godforsaken place.”

 

* * *

 

Hux grabs you the moment you step into his room. His fingers wind themselves in your hair and he drags you by the strands.

Confused and paralyzed by the sudden attack, your legs fall limp and you sink to your knees for a moment. Panic takes over quickly and you reach for something to anchor yourself while he pulls mercilessly at your locks. The pain is unexpected, excruciating for the simple fact that it’s unexpected.

He reeks of alcohol and his eyes are wild, bloodshot, as he drags you without care over the broken glass the crunches beneath his boots. A cold note of sadistic amusement escapes him when you cry out at the feeling of tiny shards lodging themselves in your skin, embedding themselves in the flesh that burns from the friction of being literally dragged. Your hands wrap around his wrists to no avail. He kicks at your shoulders and elbows until you relent.

In reality, it only takes a few seconds to drag you to the foot of his bed, but the pain slows times, turning seconds to long stretches of suffering. There are tears in your eyes and your throat burns when he finally tosses you down as though he can’t stand to touch you any more than he absolutely has to. You whimper pathetically as you stare down at the shredded skin of your knees, the fragments of glass sticking out from the flesh-colored crimson. Your blood smears down your legs. Your fingers shake as you shield the wounds from Hux as though you expect him to aim for them next.

Your scalp burns and throbs, but you force back any signs of distress as well as you can as your vision blurs with tears. You could take the humiliation, but you don’t remember agreeing to be his combat dummy to live without the fear of being killed by your peers. You glare Hux through your tears, which only seems to anger him.

He grabs your jaw, and kneels, meeting your eyes with a crazed gaze. His visage has warped into something terrifying.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten you’re one of them.” He draws his hand back and slaps you with enough force to make small bursts of color explode in your vision. “I have been nothing but good to you and you… You betray me.” His voice is once more deceivingly calm.

He stands and walks to his desk. Lighting a cigarette, he doesn’t acknowledge you. And you begin to unfold your body, but think better of it. This is all a show of power. It’ll end if you submit quickly. You clear your mind of all urges to flee, telling yourself to behave, that he’ll be good to you as long as you obey. You want nothing more than to obey by the time he approaches you again. A piece of you shrivels with disgust when you lean toward him with pleading eyes.

“I’m sorry, Master,” you say, clasping your hands before you and lowering your head. You want to die. Bile rises in your throat. Every word that escapes you inspires feelings of intense self loathing.

“Prove it,” Hux says, simply. He tosses a belt at you and waits.

“You want me to punish myself?” you ask, staring apprehensively at the leather garment.

Hux doesn’t answer verbally, but moves to stand behind you. Your gown tears easily in his hands. He tears the fabric away from your body and it rips with a resonating hiss.

“Prove how sorry you are,” Hux growls.

With quaking digits, you grab the belt. Your fingers wrap around the metal, but pause when Hux tsks behind you. Biting your lip, you lower your head as you twist the other end around your hand once. You toss the belt over your shoulder, wincing at the sound of metal on metal. You draw your arm back slowly, inhaling deeply. Closing your eyes, you stiffen as you bring the belt down as hard as you can. A sob tears itself from your lips as the metal makes its impact.

Hux counts as you repeat the action over and over again until you can no longer focus on the number he spits out between drags of his cigarette. It persists, hit after hit, lash after lash, each one more painful than the last to tender skin set aflame by continued abuse. The pain crescendos, rising with Hux’s enjoyment of the situation until he lets you stop.

Blood rolls down your back from open wounds that burn with the slightest movement of your diaphragm. You draw in short, small breaths as your body spasms with each sob that rolls through you and even with your back a mural painted in your blood, Hux still isn’t satisfied.

He offers you his cigarette, knowing he’s taking things too far, but he wants to see how far you’ll go, how much you’re willing to endure to save yourself in the long run. There are tears in his eyes as he surveys the damage, knowing that you won’t turn to look at him. It was a common form of punishment for the human servants. It was a way of saying that the master was too good to even beat the worker with their own hands. It was also the only form of punishment that his mother couldn’t stand to hear about. The thought of his mother curled up as you are now sickens him. He wants to stop, but he can’t.

“Mark your wrist,” he says, wiping his face quickly. He hates you for making him all too aware of his cruelty. Perhaps it’s the drink making him this way.

You don’t try to hide your anguish when the burning tip of the cigarette meets your skin. The pain makes your head spin. You feel completely and utterly ruined and all at your own hand. All Hux had to do was hand you the belt and cigarette, and tell you to punish yourself, and you did it. But you had no other choice.

Your vision darkens around the edges. Trying to stand, you collapse. His voice is soft, but you can’t comprehend what he’s saying. There are gentle hands lifting your body. Something warm and wet spatters on your face like the first drop of rain on your cheek telling you to go inside.

He’s made you your own enemy. You have to escape him.


	8. Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Medication leaves you numb. There's something great going on around you and you feel nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually pretty tame. Warning for some gore toward the end, though. Also it's finals week for me so I lost studying hours to write this which I was salty about, so it probably also sucks, but it's here so yay

You’re not permitted to leave your room, but the medics gossip so frequently that all news circulates toward you eventually. All it takes is closed eyes and soft breathing and they immediately spew every secret they know the second they think you’re unconscious. Which is more often than not because whatever they prescribed leaves you in a trance. You can’t remember the last time you attended a class. That’s mostly because you’ve lost all sense of time during your stay.

The good news is that they contacted your parents and you’re allowed to contact them whenever the whim hits. Usually, you avoid speaking to them for fear of a comrade seeing and viewing you as the type to run to your parents the moment something goes wrong. But in the medical ward everyone is weak because there’s rarely anyone else conscious enough to recognize one sick comrade. Most have to be forced into the wing or are escorted when they inevitably collapse.

“Thirteen gone without a trace,” a medic is saying, his formal tone slipping.

“You don’t think…?” There must be an exchange there that you can’t see.

“Brendol shouldn’t have let his boy do what he did,” the medic says after a long pause.

“They were criminals.”

“Yeah, well, there were obviously more of them. Parents are pulling funds because of it.” He sighs, paces. “The students are all bloodthirsty little shits.”

You wince as you shift, your eyes opening slowly. The words come to you as if spoken through a door, muffled and soft. A medic stands beside you, shushing you as you mumble incoherently about how you can’t feel. You can’t feel anything as you lift your arms, which is something you’ve grown used to lately, but you’re finally starting to feel something mentally again.

Tears stream down your face and you shake your head. The image of Hux fills your mind. There will be scars. And he’ll do it again. Laurier’s words roll around in your head. He knew. You’re sure of it now, and he was warning you in his own way. You bite your lip and stare at the mark from his cigarette on your wrist. You don’t have any more choices.

The medics fall silent after a while, poking and prodding at your wounds while someone prepares your medication. The salve they apply makes your skin burn, but when you struggle, they numb you again until the feeling of numbness in your limbs makes you wildly aware of how it feels to move them.

A single medic helps you out of bed, her eyes drinking you in as though she knows some wonderful secret regarding you. She smiles as she starts a call to your parents, making small talk as she drags her feet, giving you time to come back down from the drugs enough to respond coherently to her.

“A lot has happened while you’ve been here,” she says, meeting your eyes. “That must’ve been some fall…”

You don’t respond, incapable of doing so because the words take a long moment to make sense and it’s too late to reply anyway. So you sway slightly and try to keep yourself from slurring, but fail, when you mumble, “Thirteen comrades are missing.”

She shakes her head. “But that’s nothing in comparison to you. Your future is bright.” She can’t continue before the image of your parents appears before you.

“We’re so proud of you, darling,” your father is saying.

You touch your fingers to your forehead, feeling an irritating throb emanating from there.

“He was supposed to attend your debutante ball, but he didn’t,” your mother gushes, a smug grin playing across her lips, “I suppose you attracted his attention anyway.”

“Why… why are you proud?” you ask, still catching up.

“Your engagement…” Father pauses, his eyes narrowing. “You’re aware of your engagement, aren’t you?”

You pull a face after a minute of silence spent trying to understand and connect ideas. Shaking your head, you mumble a response even you don’t understand.

“We heard you fell while training,” Father says, noticing your response or, rather, lack thereof.

“What?” You close your eyes and shake your head. “Why is everyone mentioning falling?”

“Because you fell, darling,” Mother says, eyeing you worriedly.

You shake your head. “No, glass.” Fear grips you and you curl in upon yourself, eyes darting wildly around for something you can’t quite name at the moment. _Hux_. Yes, him, you’re looking for him. Searching your mind, you know he made a promise last time. Something dark, something terrible. And Laurier. You shake your head, clearing it.

“Perhaps you should call for a medic,” your father says, studying you carefully.

“Who am I engaged to?”

“Armitage Hux, of course.”

* * *

You don’t see Armitage for another few days, but it’s too soon when you do. You’re sluggish and dull, and the pain would be excruciating without the medication. The only good side effect is the mental numbness that has kept you from connecting anything drastic with reality. Of course, worry courses through you whenever you think of the thirteen missing students, but at the same time it feels as though it courses through a foreign body while you observe quietly, contentedly.

The numbness is so very strong and penetrating that you don’t realize you’ve been moved to another room until you realize that there’s someone beside you in the darkness. Stirring slightly, the figure murmurs something when you turn toward it. You touch their shoulder experimentally, then run your fingers down the length of an arm to intertwine with their fingers. Even when the person speaks and you become aware of the fact that you know that voice and who it belongs to, it takes another moment to really _know_ that voice and who it belongs. Yet another moment passes before you stiffen and move to pull away.

When you move, the fingers clamp down harshly like the bars of a cage and you’re too shocked to fight, too dazed to fully commit to the idea. Drifting into acceptance, your body relaxes and even shifts toward the figure willingly in search of warmth. The figure grows taut as though every one of the muscles in their body is drawn in either discomfort or morbid anticipation, but they make no move to move you or be moved.

Hux is pondering an idea while he waits for the right moment to explain things to you. While the physical contact repulses him, it’s been awhile since someone willingly embraced him (even though this is induced by your clouded state of inebriation), it’s been even longer since that someone wasn’t his mother. He doesn’t know if he wants to break your fingers more than he wants to make sure they never disentangle themselves from the net that is his digits.

“You’re engaged to me,” he says, softly.

In truth, that means virtually nothing. He’s engaged to you, but he’s not exactly removing Cressida either. No, he’s only engaging you because he can feel the sentiments of your peers shifting against him as though he’s done something too great. Perhaps he has, but he knows hypocrisy, too. How can they kill so easily during the Burning, yet become squeamish when a handful of traitors are killed before their eyes? Because most of the students are weak willed followers with no passion for a cause. The rest understand. It’s fine to kill with the group for the sake of entertainment, but not to do so as a form of punishment.

The thought of being hated doesn’t bother him as much as the implications of it. To be hated would mean slowly losing all of his power. No one follows a man they hate more than they fear. He knows that and, yet, he knows he can do very little to alleviate hatred without dispelling some fear. To dispel fear, he must show some undeniably human part of him to inspire some form of sympathy.

Thus, the point of your engagement is to fool anyone too stupid to look into him that he’s truly fallen for someone. Breaking his engagement with Cressida will make him look as warm as any idiot romantic in spite of having six _children_ murdered in cold blood with little warning. At the very least, they’ll target you first in the hopes of upsetting him and he knows your parents won’t fuss nearly as much as Cressida’s would if you were killed because of him. Not because they love you any less, but because they desire a means of solidifying their loyalty to completely rectify their names. They’ve needed that since your father started selling to the Republic. Business is business, and money is money, but intentions are easily mistaken.

“I know,” you say, sobering a bit with his words. “Does that mean you’ll be kind?”

“I wouldn’t be cruel if only you’d listen.”

“Where am I?” you close your eyes and feel yourself being pulled slowly toward unconsciousness.

“In our new quarters.” Hux sits up, letting your arm fall slack against the mattress. “Only the staff know about the engagement as of now. I’ll leave it to them to let the rumor trickle down.”

Hux walks toward a desk as he speaks and you collect your thoughts as well as you can. You’d be thankful for the apathy awarded by your illness if you could feel anything, but, alas, you’re emotionally blank. He grabs something from the desk, holds it as though it weighs the world, and then he tilts his head. In the dim light that floods the room a moment later, he resembles a statue, standing relaxed in his leisure wear. A slender, tall young man whose slender form is one to behold.

“You’ll have to visit the estate soon,” he murmurs. “Keeping up appearances and the like.”

“There are missing students,” you say, dragging your eyes away from him to stare at the ceiling.

“Yes, no one important save for Laurier,” Hux says. “I suspect it’s the little rebellion working, but I can’t be sure exactly how.” An escape or a message, he can’t quite pick one yet.

“Laurier?” you whisper, surprise pushing through you with a burst of pain as you shift. You grip the edge of the sheet and lay still to alleviate some of the pain. Is this his great escape?

The door opens and a droid slips into the room. Hux glances at it before pointing toward you with a nod of his head. He’s rolling a cigarette now and can’t be bothered to seem interested in what’s going on in his bed as he studies the photographs on his wall, specifically the new additions.

You close your eyes while the droid readies your medication and emotions slowly break through the fog of your mind and the pain slowly becomes more than a concept. It’s less than it’s been and you can tell that the wounds are no longer splitting and bleeding by the lack of warmth on your skin, but there’s still a soreness that is dipping into the realm of agony inflicted on your body.

The droid doesn’t stop with the medication and you open your eyes in time to see it readying to inject you with some sort of device. But you’re too put off by the medication to consider what the device is even as Hux explains its purpose quietly to you. You watch him light his cigarette and feel nothing, know nothing.

“I only need to ensure that you won’t run.” Hux takes a long drag from his cigarette. Smoke encases his next words. “Or be taken.”

Something brushes against your leg, inspiring a flinch, and you look down to see a creature covered in pale fur the color of dulled flames. Allowing a small noise that sounds something like a shrill whine, it opens its mouth to reveal tiny, sharp teeth. It stretches its lithe body and looks up at you with peculiar yellow eyes and slanted pupils that dilate as it moves into the shadow provided by your form, nestling against your leg. It closes its eyes and you feel it vibrate against you, humming like an engine. It’s small and warm, like a comforting flame against your leg.

You remember seeing something like it in the books your servants read to their children, some domesticated thing that some purchased for companionship rather than a droid. It had bothered you, the idea, because you couldn’t understand why anyone would prefer a mortal thing that requires constant attention and possibly affection to something that benefits it owner.

“It’s a cat,” Hux says, walking to the foot of the bed.

You watch him place two of his fingers between the cat’s pointed ears, and draw them down to the base of its neck, petting it. He repeats the action while you watching, gazing fondly at the animal.

“Your parents sent it as a way of commemorating our engagement. It belongs to you.” A small smile plays across his lips. “And me, too, as all that is yours is now mine as well.”

“Do you like it?” you ask, feeling yourself drift off.

“Yes, I’ve always liked these.” He tilts his head, his eyes slipping out of focus as though he’s remembering some warm thing of the past. “They know when their affection is needed and when it isn’t. And they can be quite vindictive, which is always an admirable trait in a companion.”

“Did you name it?”

“No, your parents did.” He plays with a collar around the cat’s neck and seems to realize there’s something else in his hand. “Millicent.”

You close your eyes, nodding as he walks to your side of the bed. He dangles a necklace before your eyes, the one he gave you.

“Her collar matches yours.”

* * *

Hux permits you an evening walk accompanied by himself one clear evening. Watching you dress in your outerwear, he’s silent and almost content. The arrival of the cat as well as your recovery have put him in a significantly better mood, but a good mood on him isn’t much better than a terrible mood or even the complete lack of one. He’s only being careful for the sake of appearances.

A few of your comrades watch you as he follows you outside. It’s no longer raining and you suspect the Burning has already occurred, for there’s a scent in the air, and a few students linger near the line of trees. The cold air bites at your cheeks, flushing Hux’s with color. The wind ruins the carefully combed style of his hair, making the strands dance before they fall messily down again.

You’re still taking medication that slows your mind considerably, but not as much as before. You’re conscious enough to know you’re afraid of displeasing the man, but gone enough to take note of how beautiful he looks with red cheeks and eyes made teary by the wind shining and blue. It bothers you that someone so outwardly appealing can be so terrible within. At his core, you imagine there’s nothing but a twisted mass of evil glowing white and burning.

“Thank you for allowing this,” you say, softly, looking away from him.

“Yes,” Hux replies, distractedly. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

He sighs and shakes his head, guiding you farther into the wood. “Nothing, nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing, and that becomes clear as you come across a gathering of comrades, all with their faces turned upward and ahead with a perplexed sort of terror written across their features. They don’t acknowledge Hux at first, but move to part the sea comprised of their bodies to let him through. You cringe away from the unpleasant scent carried on the wind, but follow Hux nonetheless. You keep your eyes on his back, unwilling to see whatever it is that’s caught the attention of so many of your comrades. You fall back, stopping near the front of the crowd and close your eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, you prepare yourself for whatever it is you’re about to see.

The crisp air fills with the odor of burning flesh. Skin peels, melts away, beneath glowing flames that engulf the surrounding branches. Burning slices of flesh fall like ashes from a cigarette. Blood sizzles softly, barely audible beneath the hiss of the fire, and paints the trunks of the trees.

Twelve bodies hanging from their own branches like ornaments from their nooses. They drop one by one as the ropes securing them burn and break, each carcass falling with a wet plop in the mud. Ruined faces stare blankly ahead with nearly eyeless sockets. What had ones been gleaming orbs lay bloodshot and shrunken or completely decimated. Embers flicker between burning teeth like maggots burrowing through dead flesh.

And among the wreckage, Laurier stands, his face streaked blood and dirt, his hair wilder than usual, his eyes crazed yet somber and that look says it all. For a moment, silence prevails. Then the crowd folds in upon itself and Hux reaches the boy as he sink to his knees and clutches something close to his chest, doubling over with an agonized expression.

He points accusingly at Hux, shaking his head and cries out with a startling conviction. The words at first mold into nothing, but pained howls, but the crowd soon makes sense of them. The murmurs that had begun again die down as he repeats himself over and over again, rocking back and forth and clutching the thing in his hand. It’s a locket, presumably one that belonged to a fallen comrade.

You watch Hux as he steps closer to his assistant, and you fall back further into the crowd. The redhead stops short and, though you’re still dazed from the medication and everything reaches your mind just a moment too late, you can tell from the way his shoulders stiffen that whatever Laurier is saying is too great, a step too far. You clutch your head, swaying slightly as your reactions catch up with you all at once in a flurry of confusion and fear.

Laurier points a bloodstained finger at Hux and howls, “It’s all your fault!”


	9. Tell Me Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change is coming. Matters are graying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling a bit down, so I'm posting this early to make myself feel better to know that I'm doing SOMETHING ya feel but it's really short  
> also i've got a tumblr so hmu if you wanna chat me up about my writing or anything: mendacipupa  
> i'm boring and it's mostly aesthetic, but yeah

It was late when the plan began to fall into place. 

Laurier organized it, called it the catalyst of change. He chose the group carefully, weeding out the weak whom he could afford to lose as well as those willing to be lost. Such failed to pass as a terribly hard task in a room filled with people desperate to go down in history as martyrs. And all because he’d spent so much time drilling into their malleable minds that martyrdom will be the only thing to restore justice and freedom as a reigning force to the galaxy.

Rain poured down in sheets, striking them straight to the bone. With the knowledge of what awaited them, the rain felt like acid against their skin and the chosen ones could not decide whether or not they should rejoice or plead for some twist of fortune great enough to spare them. No one dared to speak or whimper or cry. No, they were the strongest and would fall with their heads held high and eyes free of tears. And, perhaps, they were afraid of Laurier, too, as well as the white haired boy, Alexandre, whom Laurier trusted more than he’d ever admit.

They spoke in hushed tones as they trudged into the wood, the trees swallowing them whole. The pattering of rain cascading down the canopy of leaves and vines overhead drowned out their voices. Those behind them saw their lips moving in the flashes of light provided by lightning, but the booming roars of thunder that followed kept them quiet.

A boy stumbled once, twice, and Laurier refused to move until he stood and walked along. He told the group there was no place for weakness here, no room for mistakes, and that, while depending on each other was always commended, they were all  _ knee high in shit _ if they couldn’t learn to walk on their own as well. The mention of their futures hung ironically in the frozen air as they boy stood silently, caked in mud and shivering.

It was their third and final night in the wood. Alexandre had come as he was summoned to ensure all went as planned. Hesitant, but like the rest, desperate to see something come of their loss and the gatherings after so long with only talk, he gave in without much protest.

They readied their own nooses while Laurier and Alexandre spoke. Alexandre stood against a tree with a cigarette between his lips, watching the grim scene unfold without summoning an emotional response to it. His hair lay wet and cold against his neck, strands sticking to his flushed, clammy skin, but he seemed outwardly calm in spite of the turmoil threatening to spill within him. Laurier keeps him around because the boy is the perfect example of what a First Order officer should be sans the doctrines.

“Will this work, Ben?” Alexandre asked, glancing at Laurier.

“Everyone already hates the bastard,” Laurier replied, watching his comrades with cool eyes.

“He’s the big guy.” Alexandre tossed his cigarette away with a sigh.

“He’s full of shit.” 

Laurier thought of you how he’d last seen you when he escorted you to the medical wing, of how your blood stained his clothes and he held you so close and felt for the first time a sense of deep self loathing. He was aware of the risk always, but he could always justify it because he was sure Hux had some form of mercy within himself. But to treat you like a slave, to make you his weapon… Ah, but Laurier knew he’d done the same and couldn’t think any higher of himself in that respect. The matter was the reason for doing so, and in that he’d always be better. Hux was cruel to support the system. Laurier was cruel to tear it down.

“Like all the other people in charge,” Alexandre murmured. He glanced at Laurier’s drawn features and saw for the first time something very near doubt. “We don’t have to do this.”

“You’re right, but I can’t be still anymore,” Laurier said. 

Your battered image flickered behind his eyelids when he blinked. If only you could be persuaded to listen easily, he’d have given anything to ensure your safety as well as he could any other comrade’s. It wasn’t that he cared any more for you than he did the others, because he didn’t, but that every time he hurt you and felt a sick sense of satisfaction he could see a bit of Armitage Hux reflected in himself. That terrified him. He couldn’t become what he was fighting.

“He won’t listen any other way,” Laurier said.

“Why are we taking him down? There are so many others behind him.”

“Exactly,  _ behind _ him.” Laurier ran his fingers through his wet hair and clenched his jaw. “There’s no one worse than Armitage Hux. Not even his father. The man is ruthlessly ambitious.”

“What about you?” Alexandre knew the two had grown up beside each other as well as anyone else, which was why he found himself often amazed by how different the paths both had chosen were.

“I’m not him,” Laurier spat out. “I’m only  _ like _ him.”

* * *

 

If Hux regrets any of his actions it’s impossible to tell from the way he stares at Laurier with a look of utter confusion written across his features. He seems to silently ask if the younger male is in anyway serious, and the smirk that curls along his lips suggests that the accusation is laughable. If you didn’t know any better, you’d trust him over Laurier who appears to have gone insane in the space of time he’s been missing. If you didn’t know any better, you’d believe Laurier’s act as well, but not necessarily his words.

It’s a pathetic ploy. But you can say that because you’ve begun to believe that you understand Laurier to at least a certain point and that he’s becoming predictable to an extent. Even in the haze left behind by your medication you can guess at what he’s pulling. You don’t know exactly what he did and you’ll admit this drama unfolding will undoubtedly sway opinions against Hux, but you also know that Hux is far too clever to not figure things out quickly. Thirteen missing and Laurier’s the only one to survive only to immediately betray his boss of sorts? To top it all off, it’s obvious this will denigrate the Hux name. Laurier might as well have painted ‘rebel’ across his forehead. Or, at the very least, ‘rebel sympathizer’.

“It’s my fault?” Hux scoffs.

Laurier’s facade falters for a fraction of a moment and he lowers his gaze before resuming his howling. He cradles a body and there’s something hauntingly authentic in his torn expression that makes you want to reach out and hold him. You even begin to shuffle forward to comfort him before you fall back into the crowd, confused by your own actions.

You stumble back and away, disregarding the warning look Hux shoots you when he realizes what you’re doing. Shaking your head, you turn on your heels and walk as quickly as you can back to the building. A group of instructors sprint past you. Sparing nearly curious glances at you as they pass you in a flurry of dark fabric and heaving chests, they don’t slow down to question you.

The scent seems to grow only more overwhelming the farther you grow from it. A swimming nausea seats itself in the pit of your stomach. Footsteps rain down around you. Something monumental is occurring here.The shrill clap of glass shattering draws your attention to the facility as you fall to your feet. 

Comrades pour out of the building brandishing belts and blades, fearful and hateful of their neighbors. Someone must be at the root of this unrest, they know. The news has traveled quickly and sentiments are already splitting. Smoke rises, billowing and black against the gray sky. They hurl stones at the windows until they shatter and break, showering them with glass.

You sink to your knees as your head spins. There’s a comforting hand at your back, warm and calming, but the sight before you causes an anxiety to build in you and twist your stomach in knots. Shudders course through your body with a force so great you couldn’t stand if you tried. Helpless tears twist their way down your face as you shake your head, rocking your body slightly as you lower yourself closer to the ground. An arm hooks around your torso, keeping you from falling fully. A lump in your throat sucks the air from your lungs. Words beat against your teeth, but no noise escapes. Fear renders you mute.

You curl your fingers around the arm automatically, hissing in pain when the person shifts and presses more firmly against your back. Warmth spreads beneath your jacket and you claw at the arm, feeling your wounds split again, the sensation running you through with agony. The world shifts, a familiar voice whispers something that you don’t catch. When you turn, breaking free of the stranger’s hold, you’re met with the sight of wild pale hair falling across a familiar face.

You shake your head. He did this. You hate him. You wouldn’t know about Laurier if he’d never given you that slip. If you’d never met him, Hux would never have beaten you like he did. But you’d still be his plaything. But you wouldn’t be beaten. Ah, but you wouldn’t have been hopeful either.

Sirens flare to life as the violence escalates.

The pain becomes too much and you are falling into blackness.

* * *

It’s strange to be one of the people facing your comrades during an assembly. You see your face reflected on the screens projecting you beside Hux in traditional garments, but the moment feels unreal.

The room is filled with an unwavering tension and noticeably lacking in bodies. The commandant stands proud a few paces before you, pleased to make the announcement to his pupils. Rows upon rows of your comrades stand perfectly still and silent. Among them, you see Laurier standing tall with his bruised visage on display for everyone to see. His eyes are on you, heavy and filled with anger.

“This week has bestowed upon us all tragedy and hope and new vision for the future,” Brendol is saying, grim faced but with gleaming eyes.

You glance at Hux who stands a safe distance away from you. His face is drawn into its usual pose of distaste and irritation for any given situation. You hate him so much you’d kill him now if you could, but you can’t. It would bring shame to your family’s name and you can’t do that now, now that you’ve gotten yourself so deeply entangled in his web.

“We’ve been forced to take action in the face of disobedience.”

There’s not a soul who participated in the chaos walking without the lingering smart of punishment. No one’s dead. That’s a blessing. However, most would rather death to their current state. Everyone has something to lose and the Academy is well aware of that. In order to cleanse people of weakness, it’s necessary to know said weakness and there’s never been a shortage of knowledge.

Stricter curfews, complete eradication of leisure time, a new batch of First Order trained guards to watch over the students. People no longer speak. They don’t even dare to whimper in bed like they used to. Laurier’s name is ruined, but he kicks on as feebly as he might. The only thing left to fear no longer is the fact that the burnings may be approaching their end very soon. Of course, the likelihood of such a sweet reprieve lays at the bottom of a pit of molten lava: untouchable and fading quickly.

On the screens, your eyes are red and fearful, but you’ve escaped fear almost entirely. An emotion equivalent to white noise settles over your very being that is like numbness, but beyond it. You look beautiful in the gown Commandant Hux chose specifically for you. A silken noose woven over your form from expensive fabrics imported from some faraway land filled with desolate souls. With a start, you notice that you look as though you belong beside Hux with his combed hair and proper suit. His necklace gleams on your neck like a chain anchoring you to him. You can almost imagine him holding the invisible leash tethering the two of you together.

“Despite the recent unrest, something wonderful has occurred.” Brendol turns, gesturing grandly at you and his son. “An engagement.”

Hux takes your hand and steps forward, dragging you along with him. A vision of youthful charm, his smile transforms him into something he’s not: someone worthy of marriage. He grips your chin as you step fully into the frame and pulls you into a kiss. Lips tasting of cigarettes and mint move against yours in a public show of affection. Vulgarity is always encouraged in these moments, to prove When he pulls away, there’s murder in Laurier’s gaze, but you’re not sure whom he hates more in the moment.

There’s more useless chatter that filters through your head uselessly until a phrase sticks out to you. Perhaps it’s the way Brendol says it, but it immediately strikes something within you.

“Change is coming,” he says. “Be it good or bad, it will be great, and you must remember through it all whom you are loyal to. Don’t let it be forgotten why exactly it is that this school must thrive. Don’t forget your fallen relatives in the pursuit of chaos where we seek only to provide peace and equality.”

_ What a blatant lie _ .

“Today, I’m relieving Armitage Hux of his position at the Academy.” He pauses. “May he pursue greatness in the ranks of the rising Order.”

You glance at Hux just in time to see bewilderment color his features briefly. As you open your mouth to speak, he turns on his heel and stalks off. His father lingers a moment as well as the other officials while your comrades find themselves dismissed. When the hall is empty once more, the commandant dismisses everyone but you.

The moment you’re alone, he offers a smile closer to a grimace and appraises your form. His fingers trail across your clavicle and his eyes burn with an unbridled lust.

“And you, you remember that your duty as Armitage’s wife is to ensure his success no matter the means.”


	10. How You Broke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Control remains just out of reach, resignation is much closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Rape, implied pedophilia briefly
> 
> Also I have these minorish characters in this that i ship so hard, but they'll probably not end up together ugh and Cressida's making a comeback because loose ends, ya feel

Everything happens quickly in the wake of recent events. So quickly that in the midst of your recovery you’re unaware of the happenings until they’ve passed and you find yourself shifted. You’re aware though of what’s supposedly occurring around you, from years of watching tradition. The contacting of your parents and the subsequent responses aren’t traditional per se, but don’t shift the frame of reality playing out before you. Things are slower than usual, but fast nonetheless, because of the scars which Hux refuses to allow to be explained, or so you’ve been told by the people who visit his room twice daily to treat them.

Hux’s absence is welcomed by you. If he was here beside you, he’d be punishing you for his own slights. The solitude of your situation gives you ample time to analyze his and the behavior he displays. For the first time in a long time, you feel as though control is returning to you, be it in the small portions it arrives in and despite the fact that you’re nearly sure it’s only coming because Hux is becoming careless. That much is obvious. In his rage, he lets too much slip with too little context, bringing up his blood and family matters. Gossip seems to seek you out and you’re learning.

The door opens, hissing as it does, a pause following the movement and noise before shadows fall across the floor and the usual medic duo enters the room. Two women, one much more mature than the other with a lined somber face and thin lips, the other just entering adulthood with round cheeks and bright eyes as though she has yet to grasp the grave reality of her position. She, the younger of the two, finds herself flustered in your presence as though dealing with royalty or someone doused in the glow of infatuation, the object of one’s unrequited affection. She’s intrigued by you, by the fact that you’re coming into power so suddenly.

“Good evening, Miss,” she says, bowing her head.

“It’s only you,” you murmur, feigning delayed disappointment.

“Yes, it’s only us,” the younger one, Yamka, replies.

The older one comes to stand beside the bed, motioning tiredly for you to sit up.

Bandages fall to the ground with soft thuds as she unravels them. Your hands come up to cover yourself as you stare blankly at the sheets before you, feigning the disheveled state everyone expects you to be in. A kind cover, it’s your way of testing the waters. If you wander out of the room like this, there’s no punishment, only pitying looks as staff brings you back. Of course, this all has to be extremely calculated.

For example, the first and last time you decided to make an attempt at escape, you shed your clothes and loosened your bandages so as to let the wounds not quite ready to stop splitting, but notably more bearable, show proudly. Smelling of blood and cut flesh, you exaggerated your gait as you stumbled through the corridors, grasping at the walls and calling out for Armitage. Now, of course, you’ve healed considerably with the treatment of the girls and their medicines: an assortment of oils and creams (droids bring shots and pills).

“Have you heard the good news?” you cry out excitedly, brandishing your hand and the ring you received at some point, though you don’t remember when exactly that was. Miniature figurative chain though it may be, Yamka is wildly smitten with it as though she’s never seen something of its value.

“You’re engaged,” the older woman mutters, smearing something cool on your back. “After today, I’m sure you won’t need us.”

“Why?” You know exactly why, but it’s best to not let on to such knowledge.

“You’re leaving today, Miss,” she replies, beginning to gather her things without replacing your bandages.

“Oh, right…” You stand, lazily pulling your dress up to cover your body. “Isn’t it exciting?”

Yamka nods, her eyes gleaming. “You’ll never worry about anything in your life again.”

You’ve never mentioned it for the sake of your cover, but you find it a bit disconcerting how little she cares for her occupation. Most medics are entirely devoted to their jobs and would never regard marrying their way out of the field to become some submissive spouse. It was a status of honor to be hallowed and respected by even the highest ranking military officers. You’ve never understood it, even less so since you came to the Academy and had its doctrines drilled into you.

Funny, now that you’re leaving -or at least preparing to- you want to stay. But that’s only because of the elder Hux’s advances.

You watch the women leave with dazed eyes, smiling sheepishly and pretending not to notice the fact of your dress hanging precariously low on your chest. The second they’re gone with their air of officiality, you collapse onto the bed and let out a shaking breath. A sadness washes over you as you recall the many memories trapped within these walls. And you’re sure things could have been worse.

For a moment, all is still, and in the haze of your sudden bout of melancholia (which has become something that occurs so often it can hardly be called sudden because it’s always expected), you consider the situation regarding Hux and Laurier. And the thought that you don’t need either of them, and yet both of them seem fixated on you for whatever reason bothers you to no end. In the midst of things, discerning reasons for one’s compulsion to be near or associated with another had seemed like too much to consider, like thinking would only worsen the situation.

Fur brushes against your leg and you look down to see Millicent rubbing her lithe, feline body against your skin the way she’s taken to doing. Her paw bats at the risen hem of your dress and she sinks her tiny claws into the fabric before hopping onto your back and walking along your spine, her cool nose bumping against your shoulders when she gets there. She steps onto the pillow on which you rest your head, turns her back to you, and lies almost on your face. Her fur tickles your nostrils and you turn your head. She moves to lay once more nearly on your face. You push her away, down to lie beside you.

It’s not particularly hot, but the warmth of the cat’s body against yours feels like fire. The way her body moves with her each breath makes the thin fabric of your gown rub against your skin in the worst way, but you’re comforted by the presence of a living thing you don’t have to lie to. With a soft sigh, you pet the fur between her pale pointed ears until her body vibrates with the force of her purrs.

As you’re beginning to drift off, a droid makes its way into Hux’s quarters to assumedly pack for what may be a permanent stay for you at his parents’ estate. The soft noise isn’t enough to make you get up, but the distant sound of people shouting at each other is enough to make you sit up suddenly. The cat scrambles off of the bed and moves curiously toward the door standing open.

Hux saunters in as his shouts die down. The door closes behind him, shutting out whoever he was arguing with, and he moves to block the droid’s path, but fails miserably as he stumbles over his own feet and has to grab blindly at the wall to keep himself somewhat study. You watch him gaze accusingly at the droid for a moment and sit up, resuming the behavior you’re sure he’s been told about wherever he’s been in his absence.

He doesn’t speak to you as he watches the droid pack, but holds his cigarette between his lips and seems about to say something, remains quietly. His usually combed hair is wild, his cheeks colorful. The scent of alcohol clings to his clothing, faint but discernible even paces away from him. His lip is split, his clothes muddy, and the sight of him all ruined like this thrills you. For once, his cool facade has shattered. It feels like an unspoken victory. You want to see him fall apart, want to see him fall even further than he has now.

You play your usual role, humming quietly to yourself and staring blankly after the droid. There’s something in the scent of your perfume and the way your dress hangs off of your figure that draws his attention to you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his stance change slightly, causing Hux to stumble in response to his sudden shift. Showing no sign of realizing his attention, you play with the thin straps and consider how to bring up what his father mentioned, unwilling to analyze the sudden shift in the red-haired man’s behavior.

Ah, yes, what Brendol said… Bile rises in your throat as you recall his gaze. It felt so much more filthy than Hux’s, which is peculiar because Hux sees you solely as something sexual, violates you regularly, and yet… As predatory as he may be, there’s only something to be feared in his gaze. His visage doesn’t encourage the crawling of skin. Because, as terrifying as Armitage Hux may be, his intentions are black and white and his morals nonexistent and he is without any desire to please anyone but himself and sabotage those who get in his way. His father, you can’t put your finger on it, but there’s something horrible about him. That’s not to say it’s not similar to his father, but that it’s the same in a different way. Perhaps a lack of conscience is something that runs in the Hux line.

Hux walks over to you, his fingers slipping to the straps of your dress. His eyes meet yours.

“I heard you missed me,” he says. “Heard you’ve gone mad. You don’t look it.”

Your eyes widen a fraction.

“You look like you need to be fucked back into your place.” His fingers brush along the skin beneath your eyes, then swipe across your lips. “Look at you, you miss me? You should be crying, not yearning for me to defile you, you filthy thing.” He’s right, and you know it. He’s given you no reason to love him, having kissed you only on two occasions: the time he wanted information and at the ceremony.

“Your father said I had to help you become great,” you whisper not dropping your act. “His intentions aren’t pure.”

“And? Fuck him. Maybe that’ll change his mind about me,” Hux hisses.

You stare at him, surprised. You’d thought him to be more possessive than that, too hung up on ownership to consider using you to better himself. Then again, you remember vaguely him mentioning that he was preparing you for something by abusing you. This? There must be something about your gaze because he laughs dryly.

“You’re an idiot if you honestly expected more of me.”

You could say the same.

“Come now, we don’t love or even care for each other,” he murmurs. “I use you and you live. Don’t think anything’s changing because I’m changing your title.” He touches the necklace he gave you before falling upon the bed with a sigh. Closing his eyes, he soon drifts off.

You sit at his desk, unwilling to share the bed with Hux, and watch the droid go about its work until it’s packed everything. Realizing with a hint of dismay that it’s only packing your clothing and a few of Hux’s books, you wonder if the stay will be permanent only for you. It’s not uncommon for one lover to remain with the parents of the family they married into. Without a doubt, you’re that lover. A shiver runs down your spine. Being alone in the Hux estate with only his parents to keep you company seems dreadful, but all the more easy to escape. You sigh and glance at him.

Hux is easier to stomach while he sleeps, as fitful as that sleep may be. His features twist with terror and you watch his lips tremble. Murmuring to himself, he clutches blindly for something, shaking his head and moaning in his sleep your name and another. Both of which he repeats with a certain desperation, as though both carry a heavy weight for him. If he was anyone else, you’d attempt to comfort him. But he’s not someone else; he’s Armitage Hux.

When he wakes, after only a short while, he’s noticeably less affected by whatever he drank. He calls for you, telling you to undress. So you do while he watches you with tired eyes. And he does the same, standing from his bed and shedding each article of clothing. His body would be beautiful if not for the being trapped within it. His pale skin covers a slender body lined by lean muscle, the kind the servant boys have, but not the muscle of the affluent youth interested in their appearances or the muscle of a boy having already gone through the Academy’s training.

“Have you been keeping up with your medication?” he asks.

“I assume so,” you reply, crawling onto the bed. You wave your hips in the air as you spread your thighs and rest your cheek on a pillow, causing your back to curve.

“Well, if you haven’t, my policies still stand.” His fingers dig into your waist as the mattress dips beneath his weight. “There will be no bastard children.”

“The wedding is soon anyway.”

“None.”

“What about after the wedding?” you ask, knowing that you’re pushing boundaries by being so vocal, but also aware of the fact that he may think you’re still a bit delayed.

“I’ll murder that goddamn cat and feed it to you if you ask me again.”

He doesn’t speak again while he takes you harshly. It’s worse than usual because he doesn’t force arousal, and judging by his hisses and groans, it’s not pleasant for him either. Still, his hips persist for so long that the burning becomes excruciating and you lower your hand to your clit, closing your eyes and imagining you want to be used by him for the sake of slickening your abused passage.

When he finishes, he doesn’t pull out immediately, but remains still and silent for a mind-numbing moment. You can’t read his mood with your back to him and a creeping apprehension fills you from head to toe until it feels as though he’s borne some terrible thing within you. He takes so long to vacate your cunt while his hands caress your body in the most vulgar way possible that his penis begins to harden once more within you and you feel it grow. The sensation pleases you beyond words for no reason other than it feels nice to be stretched in such a way. Finally, Hux pulls his penis from you and drags his nails down your back.

“Tell me that you want me to fuck you,” Hux says. “Say it, slut, tell me that you crave my cock.”

“I crave your cock, Master.” The words inspire no reaction in you. You’ve said similar things so often. You hate him for the fact that such words no longer taste like poison on your tongue.

He makes you ride him, guiding your hips up and down for a few thrusts while he bites at your breasts, sucking your nipples harshly. He slaps your ass and you bring your hips down on him as hard as you can, but the force of your actions only turns him on and he begins to expect it from you, growling and smirking up at you in pleasure and amusement. Soon, anger takes over, and what you're doing no longer resembles something of a sexual nature (as tainted as the eroticism may be), but a battle and he knows from the look in your eyes that you’re no longer lost and you know from the look in his that you’re as trapped as you’ve ever been if not more.

You feel a finger caress the tight ring of your anus and as it pushes in, bringing forth a wave of pleasure, you’re reminded that you belong to him for him to do as he pleases and, yet, you are nothing to him.

* * *

 

It was late when you left, but the sun has since risen somewhere above the trees. Thankfully, it doesn’t rain on the way there, but it wouldn’t have bothered you anyway. Ships can’t be flown to the estate because of the security system, and you’re led on foot by a guide with a terribly familiar face while Hux rides in ahead of you to alert the staff of your presence, though you’re sure they probably already know. You haven’t spoken to your guide until now.

“How is he?” you ask, glancing at the boy whose hair resembles snow for its whiteness.

Alexandre shrugs noncommittally, making a soft noise of indifference.

“I’m worried about him.”

“Really?” Alexandre gazes blankly at you. “You certainly fooled him. He said you’re becoming one of them just fine.”

“I’ve been sick,” you murmur. “I couldn’t see him.”

“That’s not it.” He pauses, as though thinking out what he’ll say next. “He said you don’t care about him or anything, that you only care about yourself…”

“That’s not -!”

“And that you’re sleeping with Commandant Hux.”

You’re both silent and your eyes fill with tears of frustration and disgust with both Laurier and yourself. It might not be true at this moment, but it will be. But for him to put it like that, as though you want that dirty old man…! There’s not a neck out of reach that you don’t want to snap.

“I’m not sleeping with anyone,” you say.

“What about Hux?”

“That’s obligation, not sex.” You clench your jaw and nod. “But call it what you will.”

You walk on in silence again with nothing but the sound of your feet sinking into the mud to fill the gap. Drifting away from Alexandre, you allow him to remain a few paces ahead of you. Having resigned yourself to the idea of being stuck with Hux until the day death claims one of you, you’re past the point of feeling helplessness and pity or even anger and a deep rooted desire to rebel. You’ve only accepted it for what it is and vowed to live as long as fate will allow it. Not because you’re submissive, but because you’re realistic.

“So it runs in the family…” Alexandre retorts.

“What?”

“A penchant for sexual assault.” He pauses as you approach the edge of the wood. “There was a young girl, years ago. Quiet kitchen maid who used to sing. He took a liking to her, too. I’m sure you know about his son better than I do.”

You ignore him and keep walking. It’s not as though you’re unaware. You know perfectly well what being in the Hux estate entails.

“Do you know what happened to the other one before you?”

Cressida.

“She’s the new concubine.” Alexandre passes you, breaking out onto a road.

A home more like a prison than a place one might yearn to reside in looms before you as you exit the trees. Its details become clearer as the line of the horizon sharpens to a crisp differentiation between the mist hanging low and the ground. A land of stones sprawls in a courtyard overlooked by a towering home standing several stories high. You think it excessive and appropriately foreboding as you stare into the glaring windows with their curtains drawn tightly enough to block out any signs of life. Alexandre leaves you at the door without a word.

The evening passes dreadfully slowly as the servants settle you into your new bedroom. It doesn’t take long for Brendol Hux to call on you. Night has barely begun to consider settling when a boy appears at your door. His voice is soft and melodic when he tells you that you’ve been summoned. His slippers tap against the polished floors as he leads you through the maze of corridors with their high ceilings and portraits lining the walls. He leaves you in a room furnished with a bed, dresser, and wardrobe.

The commandant lies naked on the bed, his skin wrinkled and sagging with age bared to your eyes. There’s no exchange of words as you undress, but there’s an unspoken promise in his gleaming eyes. When he touches you for the first time, your breasts, he remarks that you’re so young and it’s been awhile since he’s had a girl at just the perfect age, yours, that he’s had to take them younger lately because the older ones know better. He’s not like his son in that he doesn’t even attempt to please you and that he’s seemingly incapable of doing so. He makes you look at him while he takes you and appears dismayed by your silence, angry even.

And when it’s all over and he allows you to leave, you find Armitage waiting outside of the door, his eyes wet and averted.


	11. The Queen's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has to survive one way or another. Companionship serves as a source of warmth in the winter of reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty tame

Their footsteps echo through the hallways. One, missing from the place he shouldn’t of his own accord, the other, missing by popular opinion. The noise of the Burning filters through open windows and doors left flung open. Some of the younger, slower students, linger by the doors confused and fatigued but swept up in the excitement. Next time they’ll likely serve as the vanguard guiding the student body into the night for their mortal game.

Laurier clenches his jaw and inhales deeply. His cigarette burns slowly, untouched, but sitting between his fingers. With you gone, his only informants have nothing to lose and know virtually nothing. Yes, there was a value in your view for the sake of it being molded into something very near Hux’s. At least, that was the intent of your parents. Laurier isn’t so sure about your mental autonomy anymore, but that’s beside the point. The point is that all of his other recruits can spit back events, but there’s never anything to be read in hidden dialogue with them because they weren’t trained to speak mostly in silence. A trait both admired and abhorred.

Alexandre smiles as though he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. But he voted like everyone else to hold the Burnings without Laurier’s knowledge until the perfect time arises to take the raven haired boy down like all of the other weak traitors. Glancing at Laurier’s sullen visage, he chuckles and shrugs.

“Are you afraid yet?” Alexandre knows Laurier has all the reason to be with the tides shifting against him. However, he also knows that his companion won’t admit his fear even if it eats straight through his quaking heart.

“Hn, as  _ fuckin’ _ if.” Laurier chuckles, shaking his head.

“Thinking about that girl.”

“Her husband, actually,” he spits out.

“Ah, yes.” Alexandre sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this is just a part of your plan to take him down.”

“It is.”

“But there’s also some part of it invested in democracy,” Alexandre murmurs. “Or at the very least a desire to restore democracy to its rightful place in our society.”

“Of course.” Running his fingers through his greasy hair, Laurier nods. “This can’t all be about me.”

But he’d like for it to be. It’s common knowledge that the Laurier family has served beneath the Huxes in recent years. The Commandant justified it as a way of mending broken bonds, but he never stopped to acknowledge the people he forced beneath his feet, never even gave an effort to at least feign amiability.

An accident left a family without a father. The mother went soon after. Not to death, but trysts carved from lust and decaying confidence. She sent her last boy off to the Academy the second she could, not wanting to see those familiar features glaring at her with such contempt when she paid for his tuition with the gifts lavished upon her.

Laurier’s mother was initially his father’s first wife’s handmaiden. A beautiful young girl with flowing black hair and a desire to be something more than just another servant girl. Though she was valued above the others for the fact of her title, she, like many other poor girls, dreamed of a man come to take her to his castle - estate - and make her his princess. Laurier’s father, twenty years older than her and a good man at heart ten years before, fell upon her one evening under the pretense of needing her caress to heal a common cold. She wasn’t stupid; she knew what she was doing, and she wanted it to happen. Just not the way it did with a bastard child.

The old man fell for her at some point. Perhaps around the time his wife fell mysteriously ill, or on the night of her funeral when that raven haired girl visited his room and knew just how to touch him and kiss away his bitter tears. Either way, he claimed her with a ring and they had two more children with Ben serving as their golden child, the child born furthest from scandal. Now he hates his parents for sending him to such a terrible place. He remembers a time when his brothers had praised him for it and he honestly believed he would enjoy his studies. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

“When are they planning to do it, anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Kill me, Alexandre. They want to.” Laurier laughs dryly. “The question is when.”

“After Hux comes back,” the white haired boy replies. “Some of them are loyal little servants to him and can’t wrap their minds around him being wrong, especially with the engagement.”

“Clever move on his part,” Laurier interjects. “She made her choice, too.”

“I have reason to believe you’re wrong…” 

“Oh really? And when did you speak to her last?”

Alexandre says nothing, unsure of whether or not it’s important enough to mention. Your reasons for marrying Hux won’t sway Laurier and he knows that.

“The people are taking kindly to her. She’s beautiful, don’t you think?” Alexandre changes the subject.

“I wouldn’t know; most of the time her face is covered in semen,” Laurier spits out.

“You sound jealous.” The younger man chuckles and shakes his head.

“Do I have reason to be?”

“Of course not.” Alexandre waves a hand dismissively. “The lowerclassmen think you’re prettier.”

“Shut up…” Laurier’s frown deepens. He’s found a small fan club in the mix of terrible events.

“Could be worse.”

Laurier chuckles and shakes his head. “Remember that bimbo who visited…? Ah, no, you weren’t here.”

Alexandre shakes his head and waits patiently while the silence stretches, the mood shifting to one of amusement slowly.

“Cressida. Hux was going to marry her,” Laurier says. “Now she’s a concubine. A _ fuckin’ concubine _ of all fuckin’ things. She couldn’t be worse off if she married a Skywalker…”

The young men sit in a comfortable silence for a long moment, though they have much to consider. The grim future hangs over their heads, but they sit quietly and reminisce as though the world stops for them. He knows he should mention it, but Laurier never gets around to thanking Alexandre for staying behind to speak to him. It’s a death sentence, yet here he sits. When Laurier found Alexandre to be the only comrade hanging around in the midst of what was clearly a Burning, he wanted to cry.

His eyes sting with the threat of tears. Blinking, he chuckles. Things could be worse. He could still be sitting atop the kill list all alone, but now he’s gained company in a comrade.

* * *

You haven’t seen Hux since… You don’t want to think about it or anything related to it, so a sort of thankfulness urges you into silence regarding the matter. The relief that flooded you this morning when you woke without the red-haired young man anywhere to be seen felt rational and terrible. Trying to imagine yourself in his position with his tossed nearly betrothed little more than a bed warmer and his current lover following that path… Perhaps, that’s why he seems so in need of possessing a breathing thing. Because his father takes it all with little regard for consequence.

It’s been awhile since you’ve expected someone to handle your body with care, so the dull ache that always follows intercourse sans arousal feels familiar and unwanted, yet present as always. You wonder where you’d be if Hux had never taken notice of you. Dead? Death sounds like a welcome reprieve after everything. From time to time you wonder if this existence is even worth the trouble of its cost. But you’re a coward and you know better than any that you’d rather live miserably than resign yourself to the uncertainty of death.

You like to humor yourself with ideas of old superstitions. Passing on and becoming one with the universe like some piece of the force previously escaped. You don’t believe in fairy tales, though, and you know the Force is little more than that. Well, at the very least you think so like everyone else because a situation never presented itself to convince you otherwise.

Continuing on like this feels like a fate worse than death with all of its obligations to Hux. Because your body no longer feels like your own. And there are nights when you want nothing more than to be held and there are others when you begin to believe you deserve this. Surely someone as ruined as you deserves nothing better than being reduced to a slave to desire. What’s worse is the way your mind clings to memories of his kindness as though they truly mean something. His kindness comes only when he wants information.

The noise of the door opening barely registers to you as you dress while avoiding your reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at you is vaguely familiar, but only the cast of a person you once knew well. Memories are but scenes from a screen. Your name no longer belongs to you. And yet someone calls it softly in their sweet voice.

“If you don’t get up he’ll take it as an invitation,” a soft voice murmurs, as though mournful.

A woman stands in the doorway, her shy visage tinted pink. You watch as her ruddy cheeks grow darker in embarrassment, an effect of your blank gaze. She forces a smile onto her lips and you think her homely. Her features seem to be drawn to the middle of her face, as though there’s some gravitational pull keeping them there. Her clothing suggests wealth, but a modest sort, like the older generations’. You’ve seen her face before.

“Mrs. Hux?” you whisper, disbelieving of her identity.

“I believe that’s you,” she murmurs. “But also me.”

And you can see it in her eyes: some empty thing. Her eyes are like voids as though everything her head has been carved out and replaced by a white curtain of fog and despair. She was chosen out of a line, perhaps, unlike you, but she’s just as trapped and humiliated. To call a bastard her own while her husband cavorts shamelessly with young women and girls. You remember being taught to envy women like her.

“No, not yet.” You turn back to the mirror but avoid your own visage.

“It’s something to be celebrated.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself, tears welling in your eyes as you gnaw on your bottom lip to keep from speaking and outright expressing your thoughts. Marrying a man who has threatened to kill you, brutalized your body and forced you to do the same, and instructed you to sleep with his own flesh and blood… It’s not something to be celebrated. In moments of clouded judgment, you saw some light in him; but in terrible times everyone clings to blind faith in the goodness of people.

“Give it time,” she murmurs. “And one day he’ll forget about you.”

There shouldn’t be comfort in such a statement, yet it warms you to consider a future in which Hux fails to remember you because as long as you reside in the forgotten corners of his mind he can’t hurt you, can’t even think to hurt you.

“Like he forgot about Cressida?” you ask.

“He didn’t forget her,” Mrs. Hux murmurs. “He simply didn’t care.”

“What do you mean?”

“That Brendol gets what he wants no matter the cost.” And everyone wants to please Brendol Hux.

You remember Cressida’s curious eyes that had unnerved you only weeks ago. Touching your necklace, you try to imagine those eyes now. Are they as dead as you feel yet? Has he made her body as cold as a carcass yet or is she still clinging to all that makes her the energetic creature she is? Has she convinced herself that this is preferable to existing as someone who doesn’t mesh with the Huxes? Probably. To go against a Hux is to go against all that is good and controlled in the universe.

“Do you love that man?” you ask, wincing at the thought.

“I don't think he’s ever wanted a woman that wanted him, too.” She smiles wanly.

Is that it? Is that all that awaits you in your future? Should you cling to the inevitability of Armitage Hux growing bored of you after giving him a child or two (possibly none if he truly is like his father)? And what of his father? How much more can your body take? You already want to rip the skin from the shell that no longer belongs to you…

“Why do we have to accept it?” you snap.

“Because it’s simply what’s done.”

You spend the rest of the day with her. Though you speak very little, you cling to every word she offers for the simple fact that she survived this somehow. Perhaps, Hux is worse, than his father, but you know he’s also a great deal more sensitive at least the moment.

The image of his wet eyes flashes through your mind once every few minutes as though to remind you. But you couldn’t forget if you wanted to his flushed cheeks and the reddened tip of his nose. Those lips set into a scowl, but twitching ever so slightly because even he couldn’t hide the chaos rising with him. Terrifying as he is, you saw everything vulnerable in him for a fraction of a second and he looked as though he was watching his world fall apart and you were the center of it. You shake him from your thoughts whenever he appears, not yet ready to confront that side of him head on.

Her name is Arabella and she manages to slip in the smallest bits of advice between comments on the decor and random bits of history. She’s lamenting the shade of curtains in the dining hall when she tells you that you’ll avoid the worst of the Commandant if you lie completely stiff and unresponsive because he grows frustrated and bored that way. And right after that, she murmurs about the carpets and how they were imported from a different galaxy, but obviously not the right one. Her tone seems sarcastic whenever she talks about such trivial things and she doesn’t seem particularly interested in the subject. In fact, Arabella seems interested solely in filling the silence that grows where you won’t offer even a small noise of approval.

The evening eats itself away with small talk and the occasional interesting bit of speech. You begin to wonder if one day you’ll also feign interest in tapestries for the sake of seeming interested in something other than the dull grayness of your whittled down existence. You don’t see either of the Hux men that evening and you don’t know if you should feel worried or relieved. So you think nothing of it, instead choosing to stick close to Arabella and focus on her as though she’ll protect you from whatever is brewing.

You see Cressida in passing once and her eyes have lost their gleam. You pretend not to notice her when she calls your name.

* * *

Armitage lays among your pillows and sheets from the moment you exit your shared chambers until a servant alerts him of your approach. He takes a moment to commit the scent of your perfume to memory, lingering though he harbors no intentions of meeting with you as he stands now in the clothes he wore the day before, smelling of spirits and looking as distraught as a betrayed wife. Then and only then does he rise somewhat begrudgingly from the bed and commence his wandering of the halls.

Lately, the staff likens him to a ghost haunting the corridors. They remember the rosy-cheeked demon who once prowled theses same corridors as though looking for some terrible thing to do. The young boy was a great portion of the reason behind employing more humans than droids. He had a habit of ruining any beeping or whirring thing. It was all a ploy for attention then, but they doubt his current disposition is anything close to a cry for attention.

He catches sight of you as you slip into your room looking worse than he feels. For some reason, his heart leaps at the sight of you as you are and he’s reminded of his mother. No, not his mother, but the feeling she inspires in him. A burning desire to protect her, to rise above his father. But to rise… the thought of what it entails frightens even him. But no more than what he feels for you frightens his heart not made for such palpitations.

When he considers the situation carefully, he doesn’t understand why he continues to allow you to live. It’s not some merciful force inspiring such thoughts, but a genuine confusion because he truly doesn’t know what’s stopped him from unleashing himself fully on you. He doesn’t know why he ever cared enough to feign kindness with you. Nor does he understand why each instance in which you fell victim to his charm made his heart leap and stomach twist as though he was doing something both amazing and terrible simultaneously. This affection must’ve struck him while he watched you recover from the worst of him you’d encountered.

Though he regrets none of the harm he’s inflicted upon you, he regrets letting you go to his father. He regrets not finally standing up for himself and claiming what is rightfully his. 

There are tears drying on his rosy cheeks. You weaken him, but he wants you for a reason unfathomable to him. He footsteps are loud in the silence as he feels drawn to your room. But what would he do there? Climb in bed beside you and cradle your body that grows so stiff whenever he touches you? Try to win over your heart because he genuinely wants you for reasons other than pleasure and that makes you different. He’s ruthless and incapable of empathy, but he understands that he crossed a boundary some time ago that keeps you from forgiving him.

He wants to rip every piece of his heart throbbing for you from his chest and burn the fragments. He’d do it, too, if it wouldn’t kill him as well as you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this is just one huge moral dilemma and I was pretty close to ending it, but I don't think it can get any worse than it already has and I figure there's at least one person who cares about how this ends so I'll carry it until the end. Anyway, thanks for reading!


	12. Past and Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been really busy haha so I haven't really been writing

He was older than her and yet, somehow, the mention of her name spun dreams on his tongue and his eye unwittingly found her in the quiet corners she was prone to frequenting like a flower attracted to shadows.  _ Rowena _ . Her name reminded him of some rose of a rare variety with petals as white as her skin and lips as pink as the fabric of his wife’s favorite gown.

Arabella was beautiful in her own way with her long features and prim hair cut short. She was pregnant at the time, but Brendol’s hopes for her producing a viable heir remained low. Her body rejected his seed like it held some terrible thing the last times she had tried to carry his child. It didn’t bother him per se, because it was something out of her control, but the bland approach at marriage made his skin crawl.

Brendol watched Rowena sit patiently outside of Arabella’s room.

That was how they came to know each other. She was something of an assistant or maid (either way he didn’t care) and he stalked her day and night. He knew her schedule by heart. Stopping by each evening on his way to his study, they traded small talk laced with innuendos he could never be sure she understood.

Rowena bit her lip and nibbled nervously as she considered what the rest of the night entailed. Arabella lay in bed with a headache, unwilling to move for fear of aggravating it and sending bursts of pain coursing through her head from temple to temple. In the recent weeks, she spent more and more time in her bed with nothing to do but think of how much she would rather not deal with the stress of pregnancy. Rowena nodded to herself, going over her list of tasks for the day.

She was to have the mistress’s favorite fabrics delivered. Done, earlier over a cup of tea with the cook’s son as he joked about… Ah, what was it? She couldn’t remember, but the memory brought a smile to her lips nonetheless. The powder for her headaches arrived earlier in the evening and was mixed into her tea, too. Rowena had seen the maid in charge of that spit in the mistresses drink which provided her with a moral dilemma. To laugh or not to laugh? On the one hand, the mistress was a bitter old thing trapped in the body of a young woman. On the other, she  _ was _ carrying the master’s child.

Brendol watched the girl from afar, not eager to be seen by her. Being rich had kept him from needing to or desiring to perfect his charm or effect on women, but he’d been regretting it more and more with each passing day for the fact of his desire to have someone -  _ anyone _ \- bear his progeny. And that pretty girl, Rowena with her beautiful dark hair and eyes and unbroken skin… What he would have given to catch her beneath him rather than worrying about his wife when she wasn’t frequenting the kitchens doing whatever it was that she did.

Prior to the engagement, Rowena had been largely confined to the kitchen. She was a dainty thing obviously not made for working long hours and Arabella must’ve pitied her because she swooped down on the girl like a predator protecting its young. However, good intentions never failed to escape Arabella and Brendol had begun to suspect she was just as taken with the new arrival as he was. And, perhaps, she was a bit jealous, too.

Another girl came to replace Rowena as evening slipped into night and Brendol’s favorite part of the day approached. Rowena had a habit of delaying dressing after bathing and from his bedroom opposite hers, he could watch her without worry of being caught as he smoked on his balcony. Her curtains were rarely drawn and that afforded him a wondrous view of her bed and her nudity.

* * *

It was late into the morning and Rowena was still in her nightgown with lunch still hours away. She’d retreated to her room with the day suddenly to herself as Arabella’s mother was visiting and didn’t want anyone to impede on their time together. She laid on the bed with her legs spread so that the gown rose up around her hips. There was a mirror in the corner and Rowena peered at herself in it, lying on her back with her thighs apart and bare from the waist down. She thought she should close the curtains, but became too distracted by her reflection.

There was a scar on her knee from a fall and a few others from the cat and other accidents from her childhood. Rowena was taller than most of the other girls employed by the Hux family, but not so tall that she was teased. The young woman rolled over to examine her back (what was visible of it) in the mirror, not really interested in the sight of it. Bored, she grasped a globe of flesh and pulled so that she could see the wisps of dark hair that curled between her thighs, missed by the razor, and the puckered ring of her anus, catching a glimpse of her labia. She wiggled a bit to see the effect and then stood with her back still to the mirror. Nothing special there. 

Rowena turned around, dropping her gown, and stared at her breasts, once more unimpressed by herself. She’d admired her body too many times to discover anything new or interesting about it. After puberty, she expected hair to sprout wherever it grew and she no longer felt the need to drop her underwear and poke around down there in front of her reflection. At school, she’d learned it was best to prefer her clothed reflection lest anyone walked in and decided her nudity was worthy of punishment. But punishments had been a treat because she’d return to her mirror and admire the redness left behind by a rod on the backs of her thighs. The only curiosity left was what exactly she was meant to do with her body besides what she’d seen everyone else do through childish eyes.

Possessing a basic knowledge of sex, she couldn’t say she’d ever seen the male form bare before. The most she’d done was lay completely naked beneath a boy while he rutted against her in the darkness. Imitating the soft keening she’d hear on the lips of women in dark rooms, she wondered exactly what about this was supposed to hurt. It was only a few days after she moved into the Hux house that she finally learned she was no less pure than any other virgin. She learned of something meant to fit perfectly in her, not knock uncomfortably against her thighs. Still, she wasn’t quite sure of exactly how that all worked.

Her gown lay at her waist and she stepped out of it when she went to the window. A movement caught her attention as she stepped onto the balcony, bare, and for the briefest moment, she was struck through with fear. It was the glint of light off of something metal. A cigarette case or lighter. 

Brendol stood on his balcony, watching her unabashedly as he smoked. He didn’t wave or greet her when she noticed him, but nodded and retreated back into his room as though he’d seen all he needed to see for the time being. And they both retreated with a sort of thrill.

He was pleased by how she’d accepted that she was caught.

She was excited by the notion of someone watching her.

After that, things were set for the two. Still they both danced around each other, but she kept her curtains open and occasionally he attempted conversation in passing. They responded positively to each other’s toeing of an invisible line until one day he cornered her in the kitchen. It was far from a bedroom and he rationalized that it wasn’t sex outside of either of their room.

It became the kind of habit they both knew they’d do better to shake, but couldn’t.

And then Arabella’s child was stillborn. Brendol didn’t blame her, but he couldn’t sympathize either. He wanted to yell at her whenever she cried, whenever she twisted her features into some grieving mess because she should’ve known better than he that her body simply couldn’t handle a child. Suggesting a surrogate angered and humiliated her, but he wanted to fulfill his duty to the Republic by filling it with children of kind lineage.

One night, Rowena murmured it to him like it was the sweetest secret. It tasted like wine on her lips and made her head swim with the possibility of something great and much more romantic than the reality of her situation. And he drank her words like wine, told himself he’d hide her away, some place and take the happiness she bore to him.

* * *

“Revolutions can either begin or end with a death,” Laurier says, his eyes roaming over each of the faces staring expectantly back at him. A grim smile spreads across his cracked lips.

His face reflects the stress tearing him apart and he seems to fight some constant battle only evident to him, but important nonetheless. Dark shadows nestle themselves beneath the curves of his eye sockets and the bones beneath his ashen skin protrude like knives beneath paper. A look that suggests fragility and a simmering madness threatening to spill into his being.

But the group is no less devoted to him.

He supposes that’s the real issue with them. He could never tell if they’re devoted to him or the cause. Both is preferable, but he doesn’t hope and hasn’t since childhood left him, taking with it the last of its loose teeth and round, rosy cheeks. It’s nice if they’re dedicated to him; it builds trust. But the cause is the heart of him and if they only see him, where will the world stand with his life claimed by greedy, rich hands? They’re not clueless. They know what waits as well as he does.

“Excuse me, Ben,” a girl pipes up, glancing nervously around before continuing when he nods in approval. “But I think we all know there’s a possibility of us dying.”

“Yes, now more than ever,” a boy says, nodding earnestly.

Laurier shakes his head, smiling at his followers.

Alexandre holds his breath at the door and he knows already what comes next because they’ve already discussed it over and over again every night when everyone else had retreated to bed. Taking on the impromptu job of a bodyguard, he’s witnessing a side of Laurier he didn’t know existed. Even tonight there are aspects of the raven haired young man’s personality that simultaneously surprise and sicken him.

Laurier waves his hands to silence the murmur that ripples through the room. Looking disdainfully at the people, all split up into their own groups within the whole, he sees his cause lying dead at his feet. Emperor Hux sitting on a throne and you curled at his feet like a feline, purring and pleased to belong wholly to a man as evil as they come. Bile rises in his throat as his lips tug downward at their corners.

“Death…” He pauses, shakes his head, and laughs wryly. “ _ The fucking bitch it is _ … It’s barking up my tree and sooner or later…”

He believes in honesty, in sharing all with the group, but to show vulnerability like this… To bear his naked back and wear his bleeding heart on his sleeve even in such company feels like a fate worse than death. Swearing by everything good and strong in the universe, he doesn’t want to be remembered weak and crying. Almost as infuriating as the concept of everything falling apart with something as infinitesimal as his death, the idea makes his blood boil. He opens his mouth to yell.

“It’s our duty, I believe,” Alexandre says, breaking his usual silence, “To expose the truth regardless of whether or not we lose guidance.”

Laurier’s heart swells with pride as the group cheers. He quiets them and smirks, resembling his old self for a moment that stretches into two. When all falls silent again, he speaks.

“The lovely couple is set to return in a few days the night after their wedding,” he says. “And the flames are supposedly brighter the more impure the food we feed it…” 

It’s a rising tradition, the return of a Hux to flaunt his engagement, meant to show the students how well they may do in the future.

“Hold on just a second…” Alexandre murmurs, his thoughts turning to you as he remembers you last. “She’s a good person…”

“She made her decision,” Laurier responds, softly and Alexandre sees a devotion too great mirrored in the raven haired male’s eyes.

“What do you mean, Ben?” a young boy asks.

“I mean we’ll give every one of those bastards a taste of their own flame. We’ll burn them all, let them become the ashes they want to rise from.”


	13. Something Brewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insecurities rise to the surface as they tend to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long! I skipped an update because I was doing a musical which was great and amazing and I always love doing shows. After the post-show lull and a few series binges, I'm back to writing and ready to do the messing with the feelings things by making the plot even more emotionally screwed. Thanks for reading! I'm not forgetting about people who can't wait for the end!
> 
> TW: Suicidal thoughts

His lips on your shoulder, hands at your waist, and his erection against your thigh. There’s something wet, too, against your neck. He sniffs and buries his face between your shoulder blades. A finger trails down your spine as he murmurs something. You can’t tell if he knows that you’re awake, but you know it’s him because it can’t be his father. Not so sweet; only Armitage can be this way.

A piece of you sinks to the pit of your being. The first time he’s touching you after Brendol he wants you in that same carnal way. You know what you are to him, but it’s not comforting to be reminded.  Still, you smile and let yourself relax in his embrace because it’s what he wants and what’s expected of you. Submission, until there's a clear route of escape, feels like a minor loss in the scheme of things.

So you waste the morning away with him like this with his hands traveling your body, digits tangling in the silken fabric of your gown, as you memorize the sensation of his burning skin as he ruts against you. Not once does he let you look at him. Not even when he brings you dangerously close to an orgasm. When your eyes grow bleary and you can no longer owe your wanton display to obligation, he keeps his face buried in your neck.

You feel it over and over again: his climax. The soft shuffling of sheets combined with his soft, muffled moans, fill the silence along with your soft pants and whimpers. The gray light streaming in tints the walls in a blue shadow paints the crimson sheets with a near purple hue that seems and feels arousing for some aesthetic reason. His cock hardens and softens repeated against your thighs, then against your sex when he starts to grow more desperate.

The door opens several times, the droids shuffling about their business without the sentience to think anything of your state. Hux holds you close. His grip is possessive, like the lips that mark you over and over again. At some points, one of you drifts off for a moment and the touching calms but doesn’t stop. It only becomes less provocative until the sleeping party jerks away as though ejected suddenly from a terrible nightmare.

His hands retreat to your hips and he sighs. You slip down beneath the thin sheet. For once, his skin feels like something more than paper beneath your skin. The desire to touch him grows overwhelming as you lose sight of even the hint of his face. He keeps his fingers tangled in your hair.

“Look at me,” Hux whispers.

Conflicting gazes meet. You catch the wetness of his eyes, the redness of the skin surrounding them, and the slight trembling of his lips. But you don’t what he whispers to you as his hand comes down to caress your cheek. His thumb glides across your lower lip the way it has so many times before, but this time the wetness there is the product of nothing that hurts. You rest your cheek against his open palm, forcing a coy smile to your lips.

“Do you want me?” He bites his lip.

“I want you, Armitage.”  _ His _ name, because you know any confusion would end terribly for you.

You’re descending slowly, your lips traveling the skin of erection from the tip to the base, feeling the natural movement of his body. His slender body beneath yours lays splayed and both hesitant and in need of your touch. You wish you could forgive him if it meant you could forget how his father touched you so similarly and laid with you like this only days before.

Tears wet his skin. Hux lays his other hand on your shoulder and then to the back of your neck, keeping you still.

“You have to understand,” he says. “I don’t have things of my own.”

And he’s done so much worse, made you do so much worse, but for some unfathomable reason, this is the breaking point. You gaze sadly at Armitage, a mixture of pity and hatred settling in you as you try to reason with him. Memories of that first night feel foreign besides this moment. There’s the usual coolness, the familiar desire to be done with the act, and begrudging gratitude, too. You can blame him for hurting you, but not for doing it without you having first agreed to let him. Of course, the lines were vague, the alternative harsh, but you agreed rather than escape with your life. 

Now that you think of it, you know he wouldn’t have done a thing to you if you said no. You’re so small and unimportant. How did he notice you?

“Why me?” you whisper.

“Why don’t you belong to me?”

“No, why did you choose me?” You sit up, wiping away your tears and returning to what you’re sure you should be doing.

Hux reaches up, his fingers catching the wetness left behind by your tears.

You clench your jaw and gaze down at him.

“I could see how easy it would be to make you cry without breaking you.” He exhales slowly when you reach for his sex, lining it up with yours. “And you get this helpless look in your eyes. I remember it from your first day. You were the student, the only one, who treated school like the worst alternative. But that helpless, lost look… It turned me on.”

“And now?” you ask, softly, sinking down slowly. “Do I still turn you on?”

No answer comes. He pulls your hips down roughly, then up again. Handling you like you’re a doll to be played with and pushed into any position he so desires, he fucks you and he doesn’t even have the decency to meet your eyes. His eyes close, leaving you to stare at the twitching lids and the pale bluish green veins that flow over them to the forest of pale, red eyelashes. 

There’s no response when you drag your nails over his chest. You were so numb and now suddenly… A hitched breath tells you he notices when you beat his chest, when you cry out and sob in a mixture of pleasure and anguish. His eyelids don’t even twitch when your fingers wrap around his throat because he knows, and so do you. You couldn’t bring yourself to squeeze, to tighten your grip and hold him there until he no longer belonged to his body. But you doubt he’d stop you even if you thought he would; he so empty. It’s all in his eyes. The eyes you can’t see, that you’ve always wanted to escape, but need to know for some unfathomable reason right now.

“I don’t want you,” you whisper, but you do. Your body wants him, your heart wants him the sick victim that it is clinging to the creator of all pain. It’s why you’ve missed him and worried these past few days in his absence.

“You can go,” he says. “You can go now whenever you want. I won’t stop you.”

“You have to stop me.” Fresh, hot tears spill and you close your eyes, succumbing to feelings. 

Oh, why did he have to show you kindness those few times? Why did he take you away to this forsaken heaven, away from all of your fears? Why is he making you suffer just to touch you so softly like there’s some part of him always that cares for you in its own demented way? And why do you want that part of him so much? Why are you so willing to fall?

“Why?” He grips your wrists, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe and you realize how your grip has tightened.

“Because you ruined everything.” Eyes flying open meet his in a heated, silent battle. “Because I can’t believe I let you…”

“ _ Let me _ ? You didn’t let me do anything. I took advantage of you.” His gaze hardens. “Don’t think for a second that this is anything that it isn’t.” 

He doesn’t give himself the chance to even consider where either of your feelings may lead if he lets them.

* * *

“We can’t kill her for some petty grudge,” Alexandre murmurs.

“Then I’ll do it myself.”

They’ve been arguing the point since it came up and Laurier is no closer to backing down than Alexandre is to letting go.

“Why?”

“Why do you care about her so much?” Laurier slams his fist down on the desk and glances nervously toward the door.

“I don’t…” It’s just that he knows Lauriers, knows the history between his family and the Huxes, and he also knows that you don’t deserve to be dragged into it. It’s a blood issue; something that shouldn’t involve an outsider. You’re not married yet, so you have no reason to be involved. Not so soon. Not when you’re a victim, too.

“You wanna fuck her, too?” Laurier pushes, his face twisting.

Alexandre clenches his jaw and says nothing. He’s never been one to say more than he feels he needs to and he’s used to Laurier’s outbursts by now. But the older boy’s words still make his skin crawl. The vulgarity mixed in with the general sense of apathy Laurier is prone to facing situations with bother him beyond words.

“She’d do it. She’s good at it.” The raven haired young man grins. “Hux likes her so much for a reason. And she’s desperate enough to screw you, too.”

“That’s funny.” Alexandre chuckles. “I remember how you looked at her, why you wanted her to join-...”

“I didn’t tell you to recruit-!” Laurier shakes his head.

“You wanted her. Didn’t your parents make you go to her ball?”

They sit in silence, fingers drumming along the smooth desktops. Smoke rises above their heads and they both find their mouths full of words their lips won’t let escape. So nothing comes of it. The time passes. They think, they begin to speak, no words pierce the room’s stale, still air.

“It’s like a fuckin’ funeral,” Laurier says after a while.

Alexandre shrugs and returns to rolling a cigarette.

Loud whoops and cheers fill the air as some more students pour into the abandoned wing. They’re taking advantage of what had previously been forbidden to them while the younger Hux patrolled the hall. Something shatters and breaks, a girl screams, then there’s a dip in the noise. The sound of skin coming into contact with bare skin rings out. The cheers commence.

“No one’s gonna miss me.”

The white haired boy shakes his head.

“Everything goes down with me unless I do something big.” He sniffs, runs his fingers through his hair. “So, yeah, I care about her. It’s not romantic. I just don’t like seeing people suffer. But I have to do something to keep spirits up and all anyone here wants is to put a face to their anger. I know that. That’s how I made it here.”

* * *

 

The same people who would’ve tossed you quickly in with the rest of the victims watch you with reverence.

You want to scream and pull your hair out from the roots. The veil blurs faces, but does nothing to quiet the small bursts of conversation whispered but not meant to go undetected by you. Jealousy. Envy. Fear. Something else you can’t place. It’s like they want to be you or him or just something as wonderful as either of you.

Wonderful. As if.

Hux doesn’t touch you. He hasn’t for a while, but you’re not exactly complaining. It used to feel like a reprieve to remain out of his reach, but now you want someone to touch you and love you so much that it feels like your heart is going to burst straight out of your chest and land on the floor at your feet. Your heart, your heart… You don’t understand why you want him suddenly.

Because you can go and it’s just now settling on your shoulders. A few more nights and then you’re free to waltz back to your home. As his wife, of course. You’ve kicked off your last name in a stiff, private ceremony that even his parents weren’t aware of until it happened. 

Back to your mother and father and home… To the white walls of your bedroom, empty halls, and the garden where you first knew what your life would be like after… You don’t want to go home, but you want real happiness. Not desire as a way of dealing with a lack of options, clinging to the only person who has shown some kindness to you and who you know is stuck with you.

Hux understands you, whether you admit or not. And you understand him. As sick as it may be, the victim succumbing to a sort of need for the man tearing them apart. Oh, you want to jump into the void head first just considering the situation. When you do when you’re in bed with him and he whimpers through nightmares that you pretend not to recognize, you bite your knuckles to muffle your sobs of anguish when all you want is to be held and you know he wants it, too, but you’re both simultaneously the wrong person.

You bite your tongue and force a smile, wave at your comrades, and feel like you’ve begun on the path to an eternal hell. Paradise. At the end of life when you become one with the force - if you believe in that, that is - where you no longer feel pain and all that belonged to you will belong to the universe. You inhale slowly. You don’t want that, not yet. No, the entire reason you’re here is because you’re terrified of that.

But now.

Now.

You walk with your arm in his. His cologne smells like the worst and best things molded together into one scent that is uniquely his. Recalling the scent of blood and cigarettes and burnt, split skin reminds you of him. But the scent of freshly laundered sheets, soap - the good kind, not the cheap shit that fills all of the showers at the Academy -, and sex -real sex that you want just to want, not because you want to live, but because you want someone - also reminds you of him.

It shouldn’t be so hard, you tell yourself, to hate him. But you caught a glance at his vulnerability and it’s become so much harder to hate him. You wish he would yell again or beat you or something fucked up, but it’s not coming. It’s not coming anymore. What’s going on?

Hux’s mind races and he hears but listens to nothing. The place is falling apart and he knows it. There was a time when the halls fell silent just knowing he might grace them. His thoughts shift to you when your arm twitches in his hold. He runs his thumb over your wrist on the way to clasping your hand in his.

What’s happening to him?

He’s not so unnecessarily affectionate. Never has been and never will be, but there’s something about how everything’s played out, something about your hands at his throat that makes him respect you as more than just someone he took advantage of. Deep down in the warmest places of him still governed by his mother’s lullabies, he wishes things had happened differently so that falling would come as easily as jumping.


	14. Facade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux insists on following traditions whilst avoiding discussing certain aspects of your relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is late because i took an amazing nap when i should've been writing. i have regrets, but i'm well rested

A smile passes over your lips, not entirely forced, the first time you see Laurier again. Regardless of everything and the perspective you have of him and that you’re sure he has of you, the grin he offers in passing is as magnetic as ever. It feels like a blessing answered for some unfathomable reason and you find yourself drawn in again for a moment into his schemes. Schemes that you no longer need. All need for an underground gathering of angry people disappeared over a single conversation. Suddenly you’re free to go and you don’t need him anymore, and you hope he doesn’t need you anymore.

But he does. It takes his last bit of courage to just smile at you again because, as far as he knows, such a simple gesture will draw you seamlessly back under his control. How is he to know that things have changed and a new leniency steals your desire to fight? How’s he to know that you were beaten into submission by an obligation to a different man who didn’t have the decency to strike you, not his son?

It’s a moment that has the potential to go unnoticed, but Hux walks just slightly behind you for the purpose of watching both you and whoever approaches with that familiar piercing gaze. His hands remain behind his back, his posture impeccable. There’s no shift in his demeanor to say he notices, but you also can’t see him. Laurier, however, catches the slight twitch of Hux’s upper lip into a slightly more pronounced grimace and the way he steps closer to you to show his possession of you.

“I’m surprised his comrades haven’t burned him yet,” Hux says, smirking.

If Laurier hears, he doesn’t give any indication of it. There are no visible signs of his heart sinking into his stomach and his lips holding back a thousand I know’s. He walks on with his head high and, for the first time for as long as he can remember, he does not try to make himself smaller in Hux’s presence. They’re almost the same height; Laurier is taller by a small measure. That bit of information feels oddly satisfying.

Another moment passes and you’re around a corner, feeling that you don’t deserve to stand where you do. But you know there’s no point in turning around anymore. There are people who fight for themselves and people who fight for the group. You know you’ve never been the latter in this. It was always about you getting away from Hux, toppling the First Order an added benefit, but not necessary. Now that you can almost taste freedom, you doubt that you want it anymore and you know you won’t risk it for a crew of rebellious individuals and their crippled leader.

Laurier, on the other hand, fights for the group because he sees his own passions reflected in them. He’s selfish, but his motives might bring about an end beneficial to the whole as opposed to only himself. Take down Hux, cripple the education of an entire generation of leaders for at least some time and gain a larger base hopefully. Sure, he cares about the message, but it doesn’t cross his mind when he imagines his palms red with Hux’s blood.

A group of comrades crowding the hall as they wait for an instructor to arrive parts for you and Hux, falling silent. You bow your head out of instinct, then raise your chin and throw back your shoulders as you’ve been taught to. In theory, you’re equal to every person you pass, but the First Order upholds the power imbalances of the Empire. Every piece holds equal importance, but one can never have enough affection for so many pawns to spread evenly. There are too many. Some get missed. Some will always fall at the top of the pile.

Still, it feels strange to suddenly be like someone you once feared. Do you fear Armitage Hux anymore? Are you afraid of what he’ll do next? What he’ll make you do next? You can’t see the scars on your back, not with your eyes. But you know they mark you when he runs his fingers over them, when he leans down and you feel his breath over them, but never his lips. You can’t see the scars he’s left within you, but you feel them in every interaction you have with him or his father. They leave your chest a gaping cavity cold as ice.

You shake your head and feel your thoughts slip from your mind as easily as water between spread fingers. Static replaces them.

“Do we have to do this?” You glance at Hux, slowing to walk beside him.

“It fails to surprise me that for all your brightness,” Hux murmurs, frowning, “- and I mean that honestly without an ounce of condescension - you fail to understand the gravity of your role as my wife.”

“I understand.” A frustrated sigh escapes your lips, your fingers running absently through your hair. “I understand that I’m supposed to do whatever you want me to without complaining, that I’m not supposed to have kids, that I can’t tell my parents anything about you…”

“You understand nothing.” He scowls and pauses just outside the doors of the infirmary.

“What don’t I understand? I think I understand the agreement,” you say, your tone neutral.

“Our relationship has progressed beyond that. I may not seem it, but I’m a traditional man as far as social etiquette goes for the upper echelons.”

“I know I can leave now,” you whisper, averting your gaze to his boots.

Hux is silent for a moment. Unbeknownst to you, his expression softens as he regards you carefully. Whether he acknowledges it or not, he’s fond of you, as flawed as you may be. And he doesn’t know why because your lips are far too loose, your loyalty too easily swayed by affection, and you resist. But that’s admirable: resistance. Silent rebellion, none of the overt demonstrations. And you listen for the most part. 

And you stayed even now. After the incident, he would’ve let you go. His sadism reached its height and he knew he wouldn’t get anything more from you; he wouldn’t have made you stay if you left. But you didn’t. When he described you to his mother in a letter, she told him to be kind to you. Despite everything, he wants to please her.

“You no longer have to bend to my will and, yes, you can go. We’re husband and wife now.” A pause allows his words to sink in. “We’re equals.” I no longer want to hurt you remains trapped beneath his tongue.

“Why are you like this all of a sudden?”

“Like what?” Hux snaps.

“Sentimental. Accommodating.” You shake your head. “Can’t you hit me again, make it easier to leave without turning back?”

Hux considers responding, but quickly decides not to. Such would present a well of feelings he’s not sure he wants to tumble into willingly yet. He wants to ask why it’s hard for you to go now, but he knows already that once you both reached the climax of pain there was no longer a reason to go. Even making you sleeping with his father was something he couldn’t have prevented because he’s traditional and he knows his place.

“Of course, you won’t answer me,” you whisper. “It’s too complicated to speak freely, right? It hurts to be honest for you.”

Hux clenches his jaw and you know you’re pushing a boundary, but he won’t do anything if it topples. Still, you back down, turning to face the door once more.

“You don’t understand what people will do to you for the fact of your connection to me,” Hux says. “I need to know where you are even if you don’t want to be with me. I need to know that you’re safe.”

“Because you’re traditional.” You glare ahead, angry for ever thinking there might be some fondness for you in Hux’s heart. He’s only following rules. You’re confused by your desire for him to shed the winter of his heart.

He hesitates. That’s not it. It’s best, however, that you both convince yourself that it is. Even he understands that this arrangement isn’t normal or proper breeding ground for intimacy and shared affection. 

“Yes, because I’m traditional and there should at least be an illusion of love.”

A droid meets you the moment the doors slide open to allow you in. You follow it and Hux follows you. The silence feels deafening and unfamiliar, so unlike any other instance of it.

He doesn’t speak during the process except to ask which model you’ll receive and how it compares to others. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you offer your arm to the droid while a nurse administers a numbing medication so strong the room begins to rock and doesn’t stop and you feel as though you exist somewhere outside of your body. Then he hovers over you, his eyes not missing a single detail of the procedure from start to finish. It seems that he’ll speak when he watches your skin split in preparation.

You feel it, but not the pain. It’s like being somewhat aware of an insect near your elbow. Seeing blood bubble along the wound is almost calming. The skin pulls away, connective tissue stretched to its capacity until it inevitably tears. The chip is inserted deep below the surface and feels like an insect burrowing into your body. You smile wanly at the droid and murmur an incoherent summation of the feeling.

Now, you think, Hux won’t lose his precious toy. You can go, but he’ll always be able to find you.

* * *

Eye to eye. Nose to nose. Your breaths are in perfect harmony. It’s quiet in comparison to other times, partially because there’s a droid watching you intensely. Perhaps, it’s not being intense, but that you’re unaccustomed to being watched. It reminds you of the time in front of Laurier, but feels marginally less humiliating considering that you’re only fulfilling a duty per suggestion (which is really a solid instruction).

The consummation is always uncomfortable. Filled with nervous laughter and wildly modest movement, most people go on to describe it with a certain fondness. You doubt you’ll be one of those people. A single laugh managed to snake its way into the air when you fumbled with your gown, but that ended with Hux’s confused, yet stern grimace that said you needed to stop whatever nonsense you thought you were starting.

It’s pleasurable and slow, but monitored. The droid hums and beeps as it records the two of you. Later, a panel will watch the recording and decide the validity of your marriage. Of course, this is an aged tradition and carries more social than legal weight, but no one goes in wanting to be deemed an incapable couple. Your head swims thinking of a group of old men watching Hux consummate the marriage with you. It must show on your face because Hux falters for a moment, his confusion evident once more.

You shake your head when he starts to speak, and your arms slip around his shoulders to at least feign intimacy. A smile plays across your lips when they brush his. Hux smells of cologne, a new scent ost likely picked out by whoever replaced Laurier as his assistant. It’s a sweet scent that makes you want to be close to him for longer than necessary until you remember exactly who it belongs to. Everything is but an act. Authenticity feels too far away, but it’s closer than either of you are willing to admit.

Soon enough it’s over. Mostly because Hux grows irritated with your nervous noises and partially because you’ve done what needs to be done once he manages to ejaculate. He pulls away just enough to show the evidence nestled between your thighs and then quickly covers you with another irritated sigh. He reaches for his cigarette case while you reach for his lighter, eager to distract yourself as the droid leaves with what may very well be your embarrassment.

“That was something,” you remark, raising an eyebrow.

“Unnecessary,” Hux mutters, his cigarette jumping between his lips as he speaks.

“My conversation or our ‘marital duty’?” You smile genuinely this time.

“Both.” He leans forward, beckoning you closer. “Light.”

You study his features as you light his cigarette, the flame casting an orange shadow across his features for the shortest moment. His features are harsh, pronounced, but attractively so. If he smiled more often, you think he’d be handsome. He’s always attractive in a post-orgasmic haze, which is to be expected, but he’s easy on the eyes without it. His eyes, however, give him away. No normal, kind person could have eyes so cold.

“I should get cleaned up.” You get to the door before he speaks.

“No point in it.” Smoke fills your lungs, slipping from between his lips. 

“Why not?” You pause. “Oh…”

“We don’t have to.” He shrugs noncommittally.

“It’s fine.”

Silence, but a comfortable sort. It feels strange to have reached this point with Hux. Everything feels out of order, but in a different order, they’d be just as confusing and wrong. Hux seems to live without regard for the past, shedding it easily. That’s because it means so little to him. Your pain isn’t his, your blood doesn’t belong to him. It flowed for him, but his blood never did the same for you. It creates an emotional imbalance. He knows that he hurt you, but he tries to alleviate the pain by pretending it never occurred.

You walk slowly back to the bed, unsure of how to proceed. There are a few questions that you still need answered.

“Where’s your real mother?” you ask, starting light.

The cat meows somewhere to punctuate the silence, prompting another bout of laughter this time without Hux’s disapproval. Instead, he takes a long drag of his cigarette and regards you with neutral eyes.

“I’m not answering that,” he says.

“What do you think of me?”

He stares at you.

“Do you want me to leave?” you ask, a lump growing inexplicably in your throat. “No, forget it.”

“Why are you doing this?” Hux asks, softly,  as though he’s genuinely curious. “Whether or not you know every detail of my life won’t change our situation.”

“I know that…” You lay down again, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re contradictory. Do you want to hate me or love me? Do you want me to hit you or play into your fantasy?” Hux puts his cigarette out. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking this is anything that it isn’t. Our contract has ended and you have your choices, but I won’t love you or give you more reason to hate me. You have to decide on your own how you feel about me now.”

You nod as he pulls you closer and into his lap. Taking his hands, you guide them from your hips and down to your thighs. He lets you do the work, lets you take the lead without any protest. In your mind, you can’t say why you’re continuing this other than it feels like the biggest choice you’re capable of making as things stand. Be it good or bad, it’s your choice.

“I hate what you’ve done to me,” you whisper. “I hate the things I’ve done for you. But I don’t know you enough to say honestly and truthfully how I feel about you.”

His eyes aren’t so cold in this light, his frown not as deep. You run your thumb across his cheek, wiping away an imaginary tear. Down, down, down to his lips like he did to you that first time. Then across them. The digit dips between his lips and his tongue wraps around it without any prompting, recognition in his eyes. Did he feel this way when he had so much power over you? Do you want to return to those days?

Surely there’s someone out there for you who won’t want to beat you into submission only to confuse you with talk of equality. There must be someone amazing out there who will love you for more than your body. Someone who won’t manipulate you for their own cause. Someone who won’t hurt you for their own enjoyment. It doesn’t have to be romantic. You just want to be loved like any other human being.

You pull away.

“Is this what you want?” Hux asks. “Do you want to control me?”

“You wouldn’t let me even if I wanted to.”

“Of course not,” he murmurs. “People like you say they want to be equal, but they don’t know what to do with even ground. You want me to make you a victim. You want to be controlled.”

* * *

Alexandre smiles when he sees you.

You’re alone in the corridor, destined for different directions. A polite exchange ensues and you avoid spilling anything personal, uninterested in feigning more than necessary. He doesn’t ask about Hux, you don’t approach the subject of Laurier and his group. It goes without saying, however, that his days are numbered.

“How have you been?” you ask, not particularly interested.

“Surviving.” He smiles. “Like anyone else.”

“Some of us have more time than others.”

“How much do you have?”

You know he’s not talkative, know he won’t say anything more than he feels he absolutely has to, so his words strike a warning bell within you. As much as you want to ask exactly what he means, you know he won’t answer outright because this is personal.

“I,” you begin, looking away. “I’d like to thank you. You’re the only person who hasn’t…”

“Screwed you over?”

“Lied to me.” You meet his eyes. “At least, as far as I know.”

You know his days are numbered like anyone else in the underground movement. It’s only a matter of time until he goes down with everyone else. And you… You’re gone as soon as Hux says his father no longer cares whether or not the two of you keep up the charade on campus. You know you won’t come back as long as you don’t have to. Possibly, hopefully, there won’t be anything to return to, if you’re being honest.

“I wish I could’ve done more for you,” you say.

“You want to save the wrong person.” He hesitates. “If I were you, I’d leave now before everything crumbles. The building’s old. There’s no longer enough room for everyone.”

  
  



	15. Gambit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. I'm not fond of this chapter, to be quite honest, but I hope I'm not disappointing anyone else with it. Once again, thank you for reading if you've made it this far with me. I truly appreciate it.

You focus on your meal, raising food to your lips and holding it there to concentrate on the scent.

Beneath the table, Hux’s fingers rest between your thighs, pressed innocently against the soft skin of your sex. Earlier, he told you to avoid underwear. He mumbled something about comfort noncommittally and waved you off when asked for a solid explanation. It hadn’t bothered you then because you considered him traditional.

Tradition says you sit on the opposite side of any table, across from each other and completely visible to the other’s eye should they be tempted to look. It’s specifically done at the commencement, where you sit now, during which the spouses wear the traditional veils which make their placement all the more important.

And you had sat across from each other earlier. You glanced at him once, long enough to note how the veil looked on him, its sheer front visible and offering a blurred view of his pale eyes, its coal black edges blinding him on either side. Yours is the same, the fabric stopping just below the eyes to reveal the lower half of the face to anyone who would like to gaze upon you. The soft glow of rouge on your cheeks, exaggerated lip in crimson. Your lips stained your glass.

As the night wound down, tradition became more or less a suggestion. Hux vacated his seat to sit beside you while his father noted the state of the Academy, its economic and ideological success. You were both silent while the older Hux spoke. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. You refused to look at Armitage Hux when he sat beside you, thinking the action little more than a ploy for the sake of appearances.

Alas, here you are.

He found the clasp in your dress easily; he was the one who asked for the clever little slit in the gown. And now, his hand sits between your thighs, not moving, but all you can focus on. It stays that way for the rest of the night, his eyes never leaving his father’s, as though to say  _ this is mine _ .

It makes your stomach churn.

You want to push him away.

Regardless of all other warmth you might’ve associated with him in a medicinal haze, you know who he is and what he’s capable of. And you’re tired. Tired of rules and tired of being tied down by his words and empty threats. If he’s going to kill you, you want it done now. It seemed like an escape, to marry him and move on, but what is life spent confined to lavish walls?

You want to go out and die. You want to be faced with respect and transparency for once without pledging yourself to a man whose shadow you’ll forever be stuck in. And he’s so confusing, as well. So quick to remind you in moments of true intimacy that your relationship is not in any way connected to the sweetness of love anyone desires.

He sits with his hands between your thighs to humiliate you, you think, because everything he does comes down to power. Whether he’s losing or winning, it’s all a dance to show who dominates and who is dominated. When you leave, it’ll be because he allows it and that will be your submission. When you go, you’ll still be branded by him. He’s ruined you.

Worse than any other.

Because now you won’t forget him even after bruises disappear. He’ll be there the next time you touch a man. He’ll be there when you fall in love. When you fall, he’ll have been the thing to send you tumbling.

Now. Now, there are tears in your eyes behind the veil.

So you’ve survived this far to get what you wanted. You followed him to this point and he’s tossing you away, letting you leave, to prove to you just how little you mean to him. And you must admit that you resent him. Because, to him, this is all pleasure and mild discomfort. The blood you shed never came from his cuts. Every ounce of suffering on you reflected as satisfaction on him.

Yet, you want him. Because he’s made you this way. Because through his mercy you’re living and you’ll always remember that for as long as you live.

And, yet… through his cruelty, you might have just as soon died. And you’ve suffered.

* * *

Betrayal.

How the excitement built… How it fell like waves crashing upon a shore… Was he truly so foolish, so blind to believe that he might truly achieve something? In the moment, he wants something to blame, some cowardice curled in the corner of every body he felt to be an extension of his own spirit, his soul.

Laurier wants to cut his comrades bodies, slice a clean line down the center and pull from it the wimp of a soul that couldn’t keep to his promise. Must he be so undoubtedly alone in this final battle? Must he go down some screaming heretic while everyone he believed to have believed in the same things as himself slip into their discrete cracks, far from the noise and turmoil he wants to cause?

There is nothing but the stillness of the night around him. People are sleeping, not dying, not fighting, not killing. He mulls over his words. Was there a space in them, some overlooked gap in communication? Was tonight not the night? It’s hard to tell, he admits, his cycles apart, but he has the sense to check, to correct his faltering mind every now and then. Yes, tonight is the night. Perhaps, he wasn’t clear enough about what he wanted, but he’s sure they all understood because they all understood when he told them to run.

Why step back now?

He feels the flames retreating. All he knew is now all he thought. And thinking is not knowing. One thinks of things they know, but there’s no knowing the things one thinks. Still, he waits, crouched and shrouded in shadow, beside the entrance to the corridor down which Hux sleeps.

His thoughts shift to you, to what his plans for you were. To whisk you off somewhere and be done with it. To be done with rage and a need to be even with Armitage Hux. And now… now it’s all impossible. There needs to be noise. He can’t do this all alone; it simply won’t work. One young man on the brink of madness against the brigade has never been a battle in favor of the young man.

He stands, resigned, and ready to flee without the honor, without the satisfaction. There are tears in his eyes. They gleam even in the darkness. He inhales shakily as a tear spills over his cheek, then another, and another until he can’t wipe them all quickly enough. He rubs the palms of his hands over his eyes harshly, his breathing ragged and loud.

“Don’t weep for that which can’t be prevented.”

“Where are they?” Laurier hisses, not bothering to turn. He recognizes the voice.

“Safe, sane,” Alexandre responds, simply.

Alexandre knows better than any, the madness better avoided. And, perhaps, your words shifted something  human in him, freeing the last bit of empathy he holds buried within him. Such blind altruism. You’ve grown so comfortable where you are, comfortable enough to forget you were the one who needed saving from everyone you thought was saving you.

“You did this.” It’s not a question.

“How little do our lives mean to you that you’re willing to risk them all for your pride?”

“I’ve always said we all must be willing to die for the cause,” Laurier says, shaking his head.

“For the cause?”

“For the cause against the-,” Laurier begins, only to be cut off by his companion.

“You know damn well-!” Alexandre’s voice rise with each word, the veins in his neck bulging.

“People who don’t care about -!” Laurier speaks softly, his tone firm and confident.

“This isn’t about the cause!”

“It’s always been about -,” Laurier hisses.

“Ben!”

Silence.

Alexandre watches Laurier, their eyes gleaming in the darkness with the wetness of tears threatening to spill. They’ve forgotten to be quiet, forgotten to care about their fates. Laurier looks away first, unable to face the person he was, the person he wanted to be.

“Have you forgotten who you are?” Alexandre whispers, stepping closer to Laurier. He reaches up, grips the young man’s shoulder, and meets his eyes.

“I know who I am,” Laurier says, glaring back.

“You just don’t care.” Alexandre’s hand shifts, rests at the nape of Laurier’s neck. “You used to. You just don’t remember.”

“You look at me like I’m one of them…”

“You’re not. I know that, Ben,” Alexandre whispers, his voice thick. “You’re worse. I don’t know what you are… but you’re not one of us anymore.”

“I made  _ you _ . There’s no  _ you _ without  _ me _ .” Laurier shoves Alexandre away. “I am  _ us _ !”

“So we can all die with you?”

Minutes pass before Laurier speaks again. When he does, his tone is measured, rehearsed. He seems to look through Alexandre, shaking his head as his tears fall. He’s a beacon of desperation, not yet fed on turmoil. He still wants to see the world crumble with him.

“Everyone doesn’t have to die to send the message, but living’s not enough to be heard.”

“No one had to die tonight, not even you,” Alexandre says, reaching for the boy he’s known as long as he’s known the Academy. “Just forget about Hux. Remember what we all wanted.”

“I can’t.” There’s nothing to be said or done; Laurier won’t stop. “He made me too cruel to forgive him.”

“Then this is it.”

“Yes, this is it.”

The two stand, not really looking at the other, each resigned to his fate.

* * *

“You’re married now” Brendol says, as though remarking on the weather.

Armitage pauses, his glass raised to his lips. They curl into a begrudging smile as he nods, acknowledging the truth. That’s all it is. The truth. So, he’s married to someone he blackmailed and raped, to someone younger than him, innocent, easily manipulated.

“You know, I had no choice…”

“Because I had the traitors killed,” Armitage says, tilting his head.

“Your wife.”

Armitage says nothing. This is normal, and he’s in a good mood tonight.

“She’s a sweet little thing, sweeter than the last.”

“Everything that is mine,” Armitage says, cutting in before his father can continue, “Is yours, right?”

Brendol nods, glancing around his study proudly as though it holds all he has accomplished, all that his pride resides in and stems from.

“Then, presumably,” Armitage murmurs, watching his father sip his drink. “Everything that is yours, is mine.” He smirks.

“No.” Brendol shakes his head. “Once I’m dead, maybe.”

“Fair enough.”

Brendol sits, suddenly overcome by a bout of nausea. He coughs, his body heaving with each ragged noise pouring from his mouth. His throat is rough, the pounding in his head nearly unbearable. The moment of discomfort passes, he waves his hand dismissively then beckons his son forward red-faced and irritable.

“Father,” Armitage begins, building himself up again.

“You know, that wife of yours,” his father says, cutting the young man off effectively. He continues, not noticing his son’s exasperated sigh or the way the young man sits backs irritated and dejected, “I’d like to see her more often regardless of your permissions. I want to know what made you want her so.”

“Have her. I don’t care.” He’s impassive, bored even, to the suggestion behind his father’s words.

They don’t speak again for at least an hour, the seconds ticking by while Armitage stares blankly at the wall, sorting out his thoughts which have been reduced to nothing but idle ponderings of his situation from the same dissociative lens he faces all aspects of his life with.

“You colored my blood with your own, a fault of birth,” Armitage says finally. “It’s my turn to color your blood with mine. Let the two mix with this wine, Father.” He raises his glass and smiles wanly. “A toast. To prosperity and longevity, may we both find the ends we seek.”

Their glasses meet with a solemn clink. Neither of them meets the other’s eyes, though Armitage tries fruitlessly. Brendol feels himself grow sick. The wine feels like blood on his tongue, hot and thick and hard to swallow. Armitage does not drink.

“I’ve always yearned,” Armitage murmurs, “to evoke even the smallest bit of pride in you with a particularly harsh show of my lack of heart. Now, you’ve had your drink and I haven’t had mine because I’m selfish. You always told me to rise no matter the cost. What would you say your head is worth, Father? What is the cost of this level?”

Armitage sits smug as realization crosses Brendol’s wrinkled features.

They don’t speak again.

* * *

You find Laurier roaming the halls, the look of death settled deep in his eyes.

“Ben,” you say.

He smiles at you, though it’s not genuine. You walk beside each other for a few winding corridors. As you go, you notice that he’s leading you toward the entrance, the way they go for the Burning.

“He’d find me if I left,” you say. “I have two implants. Two different models, I assume.”

“It’s interesting that you assume he’d  _ want _ to find you.”

Laurier places his hand against the small of your back, urging you forward silently. There’s nothing left to say. If he’d caught you another time, perhaps you would’ve fought it. But now you’re too tired to stand still and let time rush on around you without trying at least once.

“You could cut my arm off,” you say, as you reach the doors. Your voice echoes in the vast space. Detached, impersonal, as though you’re suggesting getting rid of an old article of clothing.

“No,” Laurier murmurs. “I want him to find us.”

“Do you want to die?” you whisper, gazing at the boy who looks straight ahead as though living moments before you already, knowing exactly what is to come.

“There’s no reason to live,” he replies, meeting your eyes.

“The cause.”

“We all know I could only support things that supported me.” He falls back once you’re outside, the door slamming shut behind you with a metallic click. Yes, there’s no going back. There hasn’t been for a while now. The realization no longer feels as heavy as it once did.

You smile at Laurier, turning slightly. You wish he’d been the one to see you that night, to sense the rebel in you, and to raise it. But would he have wanted you if Hux didn’t? Would you be here now if Hux hadn’t watched you look away? Would you be here if either of them could distract himself from plots centered around revenge and savagery?

He returns your smile, his eyes gleaming and mad. “I’m not afraid anymore,” he whisper. “I’m not afraid to die. I’m not afraid to kill.”

“I never thought you were,” you reply, tilting your head. The moment feels unreal, like a dream through which you walk. You’re going so easily. He’s not the same person you thought he was.

“Then I did all I wanted.”

“Will you apologize, at least, for stealing my story to further yours?” you ask, because you know what he’s done and you don’t know what to make of him, but something must be made of him.

“Have you ever asked Hux to apologize?” Laurier grows cold as he watches you, his eyes scrutinizing your every breath. “Then why would you ask me?”

“Because I know there was a heart in you.”


	16. Until the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took impossibly long to write this because my outline is sparse af 
> 
> Per usual, though, thank you for reading and I am very sorry that it took me so long to update (I think) to update!  
> i have a newish main blog on [tumblr](https://oovoojavier.tumblr.com/)

They stop at the edge of the water.

Laurier sits, unmoving: the picture of tortured serenity. The waves wash upon the shore inches from his toes. And he is tired. Beyond words. Or, perhaps, they are beyond him and he no longer yearns to reach for them and wrap his cold fingers around them. Who could blame him? With the passion gone from his tongue, words are only words: a jumbling of letters and noise with meaning, meaning they are lost on him.

You want to hold his hand. He looks as broken as you feel. Stitched together and molded in a ceramic casing that might crack if he’s dropped. So you don’t hold him because you’re afraid that, despite all of your carefulness, his carelessness will send him toppling from your arms. Into the water. Into the darkness of night. The cold that bites and peels away at his skin until only the pink flesh and red muscle remains to be worn away from his rotting bones.

Slow down. Breathe. The tears are still fresh and sting the same.

“Undeserving,” Laurier murmurs, looking down. “He doesn’t deserve a fucking thing he has.”

You nod, knowing that he’s right.

“I can sit here and say that and it can be true…” He tilts his head, his body swaying. “But it won’t change anything. He’ll have it all after I shut my mouth. And I’ll have nothing. I’ll have made nothing of myself.”

“You tried, though,” you whisper. “I believe you wanted to help us, even if it meant hurting us.”

Laurier gazes sadly at you, but does not tell you that all of his feigned kindness couldn’t produce a warmth strong enough to fight off the cold sting of watching someone so undeserving rip everything from unsuspecting hands. He feels like the thief who watches the murderer slaughter innocent people for the fame, for the glory. And he contents himself with the left behind trinkets of the dead. To him, they’re only objects.

“I hate you.” You meet his eyes and offer a bitter smile. “But I can’t shake how wonderful your words made me feel at one point. You were strong. You made me feel as though someone cared about doing what was right regardless of the cause. And you… You were just being selfish when you hurt me. Hurting them, the others, wasn’t for you. But my pain… You fed on it.”

Laurier leans toward you, reaching for you. His fingers wrap around the necklace Hux gave you.  The remnants of tears cling to his dark eyelashes, hanging off like dew on single blades of grass. Slowly, he raises his eyes to yours and tugs harshly at the necklace so that it snaps in his hands.

“What else was there to do?” he asks, his tone tauntingly indulgent. “Do you think I could have made him kind? If he was cruel and I was the cause, then show me your blood on my hands. Did I ever raise a hand against you?” He scoffs and stands, brandishing your necklace.

“You promised to save me, though. He never promised me that.” Eyes gleaming with the threat of tears, you raise your hands to cover your face before the wetness can gather there.

“You continue to excuse a man who raped and beat you! I may have lied and used your position and his anger to my benefit, but I didn’t humiliate you!” Laurier roars, turning suddenly upon you. He grabs you suddenly, grasping your arm harshly as he holds the necklace in front of you. “Could you forgive me if I’d done the same? I don’t understand how you can be so lenient in your judgment of him when all I did was what I thought I had to.”

There are tears now in his eyes, those mournful eyes which have never looked so beautifully mauled by emotion. Bloodshot and shining with pain as though your words hurt, and confusion because he can’t understand why. He can’t make sense of you or your feelings.

“Do you love him?” Laurier demands, shaking you. “Do you? Is that why?”

“No!” You push him away and stumble back, away from the water. “I’m not lenient with him. I just didn’t expect something better from him. You gave me some hope, as confusing as you were! When he hurt me, I trusted what you’d told me even after you led me to him smiling because you must’ve known that night what he’d do to me…”

Stepping forward again, he wraps his arms around you. His hand cradles your head, holding your face to his chest as sobs shake his body. Guilt washes over him. For the first time since running, he feels the weight of himself and he realizes he can’t carry himself anymore. Not like this. He thanks whatever gods there may be for their mercy for he knows an end approaches him in this still darkness. He can feel it.

“I’m terrible. I forgot who I was, what I wanted. I let so many of my friends die.” He closes his eyes. “I began to think only of him, of hurting him. I couldn’t see how wrong I was. I wanted to hurt you because I realized you couldn’t be the person I imagined you as, because you were becoming useless to me.”

You stand still, limp in his arms. Of course, you knew, but it hurts to be told all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You don’t have to forgive me, but for a moment I need kindness without worship. No one has ever loved me without expectation. If only I’d been kinder…”

Turning your head to look up at him, you finally raise your arms to embrace him. You feel that the two of you are the same. Unloved, because there’s no room for even a parent’s love in such a race for power, and equally disappointing, because there’s no place for rebellion or failure when every piece must have its place and stay there.

This is burning. It’s not the same to be touched by Hux. Guilt doesn’t belong to you and Laurier. He’s a warm body, as are you, and when you come together there’s not a flame that could touch something so purely hot. And your heart races in time with his. Oh, how you can feel his strong, quick heart beating against your body as though you’re one.

You weep in his arms and he does the same.

Unabashed.

Unashamed.

Weakness.

It takes strength to be weak before each other. You want nothing more than to hold and be held by him until his dying breath which feels suddenly so close. Because he’s like you. In the end, you wanted to survive and you would’ve done anything to live. He would’ve done anything to make his life feel as though it had a purpose. Quite suddenly, you don’t know what you’ll do after him.

Not because you need him, but because you don’t want to become stagnant beside Armitage Hux. Devoting the rest of your life to him surely must be your only option. And this terrifies you. Because you’d known this long before tonight, but you’d already begun growing complacent in your situation, confusing yourself because of Hux’s sudden lack of violence. But that sort of tendency doesn’t simply disappear, One can be fed tonight, but tomorrow they’ll grow hungry tonight.

You pull away, grasping Laurier’s face in your hands and looking up at him wildly. The look he offers in return says the words that fail on his lips and you both know that you’ll feel forever empty if you don’t at least try to fight back together for once. It’s selfish. You might die with him, but you want to do something to spite Hux and his family.

“We can go somewhere together,” you say.

“We wouldn’t get far.” Laurier smiles at you, his eyes pitying. “He’d find you.”

You know it’s true, so you quiet yourself, resigned to his fate.

“I liked you most with your hands around my neck,” Laurier admits, placing his hands over yours. “Only Alexandre and you have fought me and for that, you’ll have my eternal respect.”

“This is it, then? The point where you leave and I watch,” you say softly. “Because you can’t leave with me or you’ll get caught. And you can’t stay. I can’t give you more than I can by watching you go.”

“Is that what you want?” Laurier asks, shaking his head. “Do you want me to leave you?”

* * *

Water laps at the edges of the tub.

Your breaths are unsteady and unsure in their path up a burning throat. They falter and tumble without ease or elegance, as harsh as the sting of tears on your face. Tears are bitter against your lips, parted slightly and allowing the tears to pour in as though they’re drops of wine or some fine delicacy.

The mourning rose and fell with the grace of time and very soon, it was over. Yet, it took some part of you with it. And you’ve already lost too many integral parts to feel whole as things are. Still, there is comfort in this loss because there’s nothing lost. You know some piece of you has gone with Laurier and there’s comfort in that.

Now there’s only room for white noise in the place of emotions.

The tears fall.

Without cease.

Without emotion.

Hux doesn’t know what you saw or what you did. He doesn’t suspect a thing because he found you the next morning in your bed, laying there as though the night had receded as it always did. Outside of two very real losses, it did. People slept on and in the morning classes went on as usual.

Commandant Hux: dead.

Ben Laurier: presumed to be dead.

And that had been enough to Hux as he took his father’s place in the coming days and never once turned to toss a question regarding Laurier your way. You’re still waiting, though, for that question, because you expect him to know without knowing all that has transpired. You hold in all the questions you long to beg of him because you know what you don’t and fear what you believe.

So this is it.

You’ve chosen your place beside him for the rest of your life because you can’t leave. He’d just find you. As much as Armitage Hux would like to go on pretending that his body and soul have been purged of attachments, a fondness lurks in him wrapped in obsession and an intense desire to possess you.

Earlier this morning as he watched droids pack your things, you saw in his eyes a gleam. His unfocused visage dripped with dreams whose pain you could already feel. When he caught your eyes as his dreams faded, he looked away quickly and told you to be ready by tonight to leave. There’s something terrible in those eyes, a new coldness that permeates the soul.

When he looks at you, he doesn’t know whether to feel guilt or pride. He’s done horrible things. And, yet… _he’s done horrible things_. Hux feels you pushed him toward the height of cruelty and for that he’ll forever be indebted to you.

You want to be happy one day. To run away, to leave him, is impossible. Forever you will be caught in the sinister white strings of his web, hanged by the neck between desperation and expectation.

You draw in a shallow breath and sink back until the water rises above your face. It won’t take long. It won’t take long. No sound. No voice. Water. Water in your lungs. You keep your lips shut tightly as the water ripples overhead. A moment later you’re being pulled up and out the water by pale fingers at your throat.

Hux stares into your eyes, his own revealing nothing. A moment will never be enough for him. He knows everything before it can be done. As though he cares, he watches your every movement hawkishly. There’s no sinking when he’s always the rope pulling you back to shore as long as you’re useful to him.


End file.
